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QUENTIN DURWARD 


La guerre est ma patrie, 
Mon harnois ma maison, 
Et en toute saison 
Combattre c’est ma vie. 








































































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Sn&refo Hang lEtitton 


Quentin Durward 

«.?, By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 


With Introductory Essay and Notes 
by Andrew Lang j * & Illustrated 



Dana Estes & Company 
* jt jt jt # j* Publishers 
Boston-* -* •* •* •* •* •* •* 


Copyright, 1894 

By Estes & Lauriat 




/f ■ 

/M 


■ *r~'\ 




&nlirrto Hang lEtiition. 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

QUENTIN DURWARD. 

Volume I. 


PAGE 


The Breakfast 

• 

• 

* 

Frontispiece 

The Boar-Hunt 

. 

. 

. 

. 162 

The Princess Fainting 

. 


. 

• 199 


Volume II. 

Meeting of Louis and Charles . . . *30 

Isabelle at the Grating 255 



EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION 


TO 

QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“The public would expect a finely wrought story, 
which there is no chance of their being gratified in,” 
Scott said, when, after the publication of “Peveril,” 
there was some talk of “crying halt.” “A finely 
wrought story ” was precisely what he gave them in 
“Quentin Durward.” In a sense it is perhaps the 
best of the Waverley novels. It is far beyond them 
all in construction, the events flowing from each other 
rapidly and necessarily, without recapitulations or di- 
gressions, or longueurs. The liberty taken with history 
is slight, and is confessed; the dramatic circumstances 
of Louis’s visit to Charles the Bold, the inopportune out- 
break of the revolt which Louis had fomented in Liege; 
the imprisonment of the king in the donjon where Charles 
the Simple had been murdered — these events supply 
Sir Walter with his motive, and he most skilfully com- 
bines all with the adventures of his Scotch soldier of 
fortune. Here no Deus ex maehind is needed : here the 
love-affair is an inevitable consequence of romantic 
proximity, not a mere sop to the public taste for a love- 
story. The somewhat heavy and mechanical pleasantries 
of other tales are conspicuously absent: in “Quentin 
Durward ” all hastens to the predetermined conclusion, 
through scenes gorgeous, stimulating, and in accord 
with historical truth of manners and events. The land- 
scape, the environment, are novel: the patriotic genius 


X 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


finds room and impulse among the Scottish Guard, de- 
scendants of Jeanne d’ Arc’s heroic companions-in-arms. 
All the characters are full of blood and life, all play 
their parts to admiration; and “ Quentin Durward” 
was not only applauded in France for its French colour- 
ing, hut because, in this romance, the French genius 
recognized Scott’s most finished and most perfect work 
of art. Yet, in England, as Lockhart tells us, “Quen- 
tin Durward ” was, commercially, unsuccessful, till the 
sails of the barque were filled by the breeze from France. 

“Quentin Durward” was begun, as we saw, before 
“Peveril ” was finished, in the autumn of 1822. 1 On 
Dec. 18, 1822, Scott wrote to Constable: “Books of 
history help me little, except Commines.” He had 
the “ Memoires de Philippe de Commines sur les faicts 
et gestes de Loys XI. et Charles VIII.” (Paris, 8vo, 
1566), and he also possessed Olivier de la Marche 
and Jean de Troyes in Petitot’s complete Collection 
of Memoirs. 2 Plessis-les-Tours he thought “a vile 
place,” which baffled both himself and Constable. 
“I have not found it in any map, provincial or gen- 
eral, which I have consulted. . . . Instead of making 
description hold the place of sense, I must try to make 
such sense as I can find hold the place of description.” 
He borrowed from the Advocates’ Library the large 
quarto edition of Commines. At this time (March 10, 
1823) Scott gave Constable thirteen of the manuscripts 
of his novels, not all complete. The present suggested 
to Constable the magnum opus — that is, the annotated 
edition of the novels, which Scott had nearly completed 
before his death. “It is the author only who could do 
anything at all acceptable in the way of genuine illustra- 
tions.” Constable had already studied “the first volume 

1 See Editor’s Introduction to “ Peveril.” 

2 There is a handy edition of Commines published by the 
Elzevirs (Leyden, 16481. 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


XI 


of ‘ Quentin Durward 7 with great delight. 7 7 On March 
26 Scott wrote telling him his work had been inter- 
rupted by the news of the death of his brother Torn, 
“but nothing relieves the heartache like a little task- 
work.’ 7 He now contemplated a Dialogue on Popular 
Superstitions, called “The Bogles,” by Constable. 
This was to fill a break in the series of novels. But 
Constable’s terms were inadequate, and Scott deserted 
“The Bogles ” for “St. Bonan’s Well.” We might 
have preferred the other book, for which the “ Letters 
on Demonology and Witchcraft,” written with failing 
powers, is no substitute. 

Constable now suggested an attempt to secure an in- 
terest in the dramatised version of “Quentin ” which 
was sure to appear, as the theatres then lived on Sir 
Walter. Scott thought there were “great objections 
to interfering.” He was by no means averse to letting 
as many people as possible share in the money which 
his genius produced. He employed Constable to send 
copies of his works to a M. Petizon, who made him a 
present of some excellent champagne. On June 18, 
1823, he wrote regretting that “Quentin Durward,” 
which had now appeared, was “ somewhat frost-bitten, 
which I did not expect. It might be necessary to 
make longer pauses between the novels : we must keep 
the mill going with something else.” That the mill 
might go less rapidly, that economy in living would 
have been a good 'substitute for rapidity in production, 
did not occur to Scott. We can hardly say that his 
work would have been improved by deliberation. 
‘‘Quentin Durward” is a masterpiece, “Peveril” and 
“St. Ronan’s Well” are by no means masterpieces, 
but “Quentin” was written at the same pace as the 
novel which preceded it, and the novel which followed 
it. By May 13, 1823, he was announcing a fresh 
book, “in great glee,” to Cadell. “Is it ‘The 


xff 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


Bogles' ?” James Ballantyne had asked. “No, no, 
man, it is not ‘The Bogles'; I got no encouragement; 
the offer {£500] was inadequate. Hoot, man, it's 
no ‘ The Bogles.’ ” This was reported by Cadell on 
May 13: on May 17 “Quentin Durward ” was pub- 
lished. Now there were still 1100 copies of “ Peveril” 
in the hands of Constable’s London correspondents. If 
“Quentin” was “frost-bitten,” the frost came from 
the Peak. Hurst and Co. admitted that “Quentin” 
was “more admired than any one since ‘Ivanhoe,’” 
but “we may gorge the public.” These complaints, 
Sir Walter wrote, “neither surprise nor dismay me. 

The mouse who only trusts to one poor hole 

Can never be a mouse of any soul.” 

“The Bogles,” we may believe, would not have been 
a very sumptuous “hole.” Scott showed later, by the 
vast success of his “Tales of a Grandfather,” what 
holes were open to him. But he was hurrying on, at 
this moment, with “ St. Honan’s Well,” while letters 
from Constable, in August, preluded to the general 
catastrophe of Ballantyne’s affairs and of his own. 
“The state of bills current” between the two houses 
was perplexed : there was a floating debt of nearly 
£20,000. Scott wished to know whether Constable’s 
anxiety was caused by “the deficiency of the sale of 
‘ Quentin Durward. ’ ” Constable replied that merely 
the extent and expense of the transactions alarmed 
him, and Scott announced a plan of retrenchment and 
economy “which has reduced £6000 since April last” 
(“Archibald Constable,” iii. 284, Aug. 23, 1823). 
Thus it appears that Scott had received warning about 
the complexity of his own affairs, two years before the 
time of commercial panic in which the Ballantynes and 
Constables went down (November 1825). It is curious 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xiii 


that so admirable a novel as “Quentin Durward ” should 
have hinted the beginning of the end. 

“ Quentin Durward ” was suggested partly, like the 
Jews in “Ivanhoe,” by Mr. Skene. He had kept a 
journal of a tour in France, with illustrations : hence 
came Scott’s original Introduction. Lockhart often 
found him busy over maps and gazetteers in the Advo- 
cates’ Library: yet his labours did not prevent him 
from writing his essay on Romance for the “Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica,” and he supplied the Bannatyne 
Club, his own creation, with an excellent song. He 
became enthusiastic about gas lighting, was chairman 
of a company, and filled Abbotsford with queer inven- 
tions, diabolical smells, and bells which would not 
ring. To this invention of gas, and the burning light 
under which he wrote, Lockhart attributed much of 
Scott’s bad health. In fact, his busy life had never 
been more fully and variously occupied than when 
“France, long wearied of her pompous tragedians and 
feeble romancers, who had alone striven to bring out 
the ancient history and manners of their country in 
popular forms, was seized with a fever of delight when 
Louis XI. and Charles the Bold started into life again 
at the beck of the Northern Magician ” (Lockhart, 
viii. 163). We may say that Scott was the father of 
the Romanticist es of 1830, and that the greatest of his 
works was Alexandre Dumas, the noblest and most 
generous of his intellectual descendants. In these cir- 
cumstances of Scott’s life “Quentin Durward” saw the 
light. 

He who writes hardly thinks that justice has been 
done to this masterpiece by popular taste, and by criti- 
cism. As a boy’s book it is so superabundantly ex- 
cellent that a common prejudice hinders people from 
placing it among the very best of men’s books. Com- 
pared with “Ivanhoe,” even, it may be reckoned finet 


xiv 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


and better, as much more probable, less complicated, 
quite unvexed by such an event as the resuscitation 
of Athelstane. There is here no Rebecca, indeed, and 
some may prefer Friar Tuck to Le Balafre, while the 
tournament and the siege of Torquilstone could only 
be written once for all. On the other hand, here his- 
tory lives, and the dead men of the past breathe again, 
more convincingly than in the delightful pageant where 
the Lion Heart and the Templar play their parts. 
Louis XI. is the Louis of fact and of Commines. That 
unlikely adventure of his, apparently so out of keeping, 
the visit to Charles the Bold, resembles the visit of 
Odysseus to the Cyclops. No genius could have dared 
to invent it of either hero; tradition furnished Homer, 
chronicles furnished Scott, with the great impossibility, 
which was possible after all, with the cunning and 
courage which redeemed the unlikely and unlooked-for 
‘ ‘ follies of the wise.” The period, and the politics, 
had an animating attraction for Scott. In society he 
believed in gradation, like Dr. Johnson, and he believed 
in duty. Both of these he found in the ideal of the 
Feudal System. Here was a society which had an idea, 
an intellectual basis, such as no society has enjoyed 
since feudalism fell. In “The Tales of a Grandfather” 
Scott made all this clear as day to any intelligent child. 
But the passions and greed of men are ever at war with 
the idea, and Louis XI., seeing the idea overthrown, 
craftily wrought at building up a new system of cen- 
tralisation and despotism. The second introduction, 
written in Scott’s latest days, in illness and overthrow, 
shows how he resented and detested the selfishness and 
cruelty of Louis, the contempt he threw on what had 
been real, and was now fading and failing, the ideal of 
chivalry. But, drawing the portrait of Louis, the 
frank and humane genius of Scott paints him at his 
best, without hiding the blemishes and the shadows. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xv 


He follows Commines, with an artistic rather than a 
political sympathy. He is aided by these extraordi- 
nary survivals of superstition in Louis which criticism 
would scout as romantically or grotesquely absurd, if 
they were not vouched for beyond question. He is 
more successful with the subtle character of the king 
than with the bluff brutality of Charles the Bold, him- 
self a Boar of the Ardennes, with a grain of conscience 
and kingliness. Louis is probably the chef-d'oeuvre 
even among the royal portraits of the Prince of Ro- 
mancers, and the Romancer of Princes. Scott’s humour, 
his affectionate and pitying vision of humanity, saves 
him here. It were easy to make Louis a monster, and 
James YI. a mere caitiff : thus many hands not un- 
skilled would have drawn them ; but this is not the 
method of Shakspeare and of Scott. Among the other 
characters of the tale, the hero, for once, holds a distinct 
position. He is not the mere passive person round whom 
events move, but the chief agent in his own fortunes; he 
has the winningness of youth, spirit and good looks, 
like Roland Graeme, with none of the insolence of the 
page. Quentin Durward is a hero after Scott’s own 
heart, and we are scarcely less attached to his sturdy 
stupid uncle, the picturesque Le Balafre, with the scar, 
the great gold chain, the accommodating conscience, 
and the “canty conceit o’ himsel’,” for which the other 
Scot is said to have, superfluously prayed. Ludovic is 
not made to come too frequently on the stage, nobody 
can call him one of Scott’s bores, and the contrasted 
pair of hangmen are not too much insisted upon. The 
Flemish Nicol Jarvie, with his pretty daughter, make 
a pleasant group; the Bohemian Havraddin may be some- 
what theatrical, but much was left here to the dramatic 
fancy. The good Lord Crawford might be an ancestor 
of Baron Bradwardine’s, naturally without any of his 
pedantry, in an age when, as Commines tells us about 


XVI 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


the nobles, “de nnlles lettres ils n’ont congnoissance.” 
The astrologer of this tale is quite an original kind of 
astrologer, not conventional like his fellow-magician in 
“ Kenilworth.” The heroine can scarcely be called a 
character, she is so much in the background through- 
out: we see a fair arm at the window, hear a sweet 
voice behind the lattice singing a charming song, and 
that is almost all. The Lady Hameline is somewhat un- 
gallantly treated, and a lady of thirty-five is not so very 
antiquated as these rude soldiers constantly declare. 
Scott had, at one time, an intention to continue the tale 
of Quentin’s adventures, whose life must have been peril- 
ous enough as a Count with a small territorj^ among 
the jars of France and Burgundy. It might have been 
amusing to hear the widowed countess lamenting “her 
William ” ; but sequels are perilous things, and Sir 
Walter wisely left Quentin in the haven where he 
would be. 

A few words on the Scottish Archers, the corps to 
which Quentin Durward belonged, may not be super- 
fluous. Their history has been written by the Rev. 
Father Forbes Leith (S.J.) 1 Towards the end of 
1418 Charles the Dauphin, sorely pressed by Henry Y. 
of England, sent to ask for Scottish assistance. The 
Duke of Albany, then Regent, despatched his second 
son, Sir John Stewart, Earl of Buchan, with Archibald 
Douglas, Earl of Wigtown, and Sir John Stewart of 
Darneley, at the head of a Scottish contingent. They 
were carried over by Spanish vessels, and part of the 
force landed in May 1419, others at La Rochelle in 
September. None of the Scottish captains were present 
when the Dauphin met Jean sans Peur, Duke of Bur- 
gundy, at Montereau-faut-Yonne, when the Duke was 
killed (Aug. 12, 1419). This Duke was the grand 

1 “ The Scots Men at Arms and Life Guards in France, 1418- 
1830 ” (Paterson Edinburgh, 1882). 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


XVII 


father of Charles the Bold. More Scottish reinforce- 
ments landed in 1421, but they had ill luck, were 
defeated at Le Mans, and lost their military chest 
with their pay. On March 22 they met the English 
at the bridge at Baug6, over which the Duke of Clar- 
ence tried to force his passage. He was attacked by 
John Kirkmichael, who broke a spear on his breast, 
was wounded in the face by Sir William Swinton, and 
killed by the mace of the Earl of Buchan. Sir John 
Sibbald captured the Earl of Huntingdon, and the 
English sustained a severe defeat. This is the Scot- 
tish version : the French ascribed Clarence’s death to 
Charles le Bouteiler or to Gilbert de la Fayette. “The 
last Swinton de Swinton presented to Sir Walter Scott” 
(who was connected with the family) “the point of the 
weapon with which his ancestor accomplished this deed 
of prowess. The lance of Swinton is still to be seen in 
the collection of antiquities at Abbotsford,” says Father 
Forbes Leith. The feat, however, is rather apocryphal; 
the Highlanders attributed the slaying of Clarence to 
Alexander McCausland. In spite of this victory, the 
Scots were no more popular in France than the French 
troops commonly were in Scotland. The countrymen 
of Quentin Durward were called wine-bags and tug- 
muttons (“sacsavinet mangeurs de mouton”). In 

1423 Lord Willoughby defeated the Scottish Archers 
at Cravant, on the Yonne. They are said to have lost 
3000 men, among them a Haliburton (also of a family 
from which Scott descended), a Cameron, a Cunning- 
ham, a Hume, a Douglas, and a Crawford. In August 

1424 Charles VII. was defeated at Verneuil, and the 
flower of the Scottish legion fell. They neither took 
nor gave quarter, and the French were pleased at their 
defeat. The Earl of Buchan and the Earl of Douglas 
were among the slain. In 1425, however, we find the 
first mention of a Scottish Life Guard in France, men- 


xviii 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


at-arms and archers (July 8). They were more defi 
nitely organised in 1445. The Scots Guard charged at 
Malplaquet, and “the King” (James VIII., the Cheva- 
lier Saint George) was wounded as he led them on. But 
there were, by that time, few Scots in the so-called Scots 
Guards, which was finally disbanded at the Revolution 
of 1830. Their most illustrious deeds were done as 
comrades of Joan of Arc: she was aided by John Kirk- 
michael, who broke a spear with Clarence, and was now 
Bishop of Orleans. An Ogilvy and a Wishart were 
with La Pucelle when she brought a convoy of provi- 
sions into Orleans, and a Kennedy was one of the 
council of war in the besieged city. A Polwarth 
painted her standard, and not improbably her portrait. 
In July 1445 two Scots companies were regularly 
formed, the first under John Stuart, Lord of D’Aubigny. 
When Louis XI. was Dauphin, he attempted to bribe 
the Scots Guard and “remove” the King. He was 
banished. In 1449 the Scots helped to take Rouen 
for France. They then wore “jackets without sleeves, 
red, white, and green, covered with gold embroidery, 
with plumes in their helms of the same colours, and 
their swords and leg-harness richly mounted in silver.” 
In 1450 two of the Guard, Robert Campbell and Robert 
Cunningham, were accused of treason, and complicity 
in a plot with the English. Cunningham was set free, 
but Campbell was executed. In 1474 Louis XI. raised 
a new company of a hundred Scots of gentle birth ; on 
his death he entrusted his son Charles to his Scots 
Guards. The last trace of the Scottish element in the 
force was their word of answer to the roll-call, not “ Me 
voilk, ” but, “in Gaelic, I am here / ” This is quoted 
by Father Forbes Leith, from a communication by 
Marshal Macdonald. After helping to free France 
from England, and doing more for France than the 
Old Alliance ever did for Scotland, the Scottish connec- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xix 


tion was broken by the Reformation and the death of 
Francis II. Only a shadow survived, in the attempts 
of the exiled Stuarts, hut no Scots in French service 
left a memory more glorious than the disbanded officers 
of Dundee. Marshal Macdonald himself was descended 
from a Jacobite exile who went to France with Prince 
Charles, after Culloden. 


November 1893. 


Andrew Lang. 

















. 


























INTRODUCTION 


TO 

QUENTIN DURWARD. 

The scene of this romance is laid in the fifteenth cen- 
tury, when the feudal system, which had been the 
sinews and nerves of national defence, and the spirit of 
chivalry, by which, as by a vivifying soul, that system 
was animated, began to be innovated upon and aban- 
doned by those grosser characters, who centred their 
sum of happiness in procuring the personal objects on 
which they had fixed their . own exclusive attachment. 
The same egotism had indeed displayed itself even in 
more primitive ages; but it was now for the first time 
openly avowed as a professed principle of action. ’ The 
spirit of chivalry had in it this point of excellence, 
that however overstrained and fantastic many of its doc- 
trines may appear to us, they were all founded on 
generosity and self-denial, of which if the earth were 
deprived, it would be difficult to conceive the existence 
of virtue among the human race. 

Among those who ware the first to ridicule and aban- 
don the self-denying principles in which the young 
knight was instructed, and to which he was so carefully 
trained up, Louis the Xlth of France was the chief. 
That Sovereign was of a character so purely selfish — 
so guiltless of entertaining any purpose unconnected 
with his ambition, covetousness, and desire of selfish 
enjoyment, that he almost seems an incarnation of the 
devil himself, permitted to do his utmost to corrupt our 


xxii 


INTRODUCTION TO 


ideas of honour in its very source. Nor is it to be 
forgotten that Louis possessed to a great extent that 
caustic wit which can turn into ridicule all that a man 
does for any other person’s advantage hut his own, and 
was, therefore, peculiarly qualified to play the part of a 
cold-hearted and sneering fiend. 

In this point of view, Goethe’s conception of the 
character and reasoning of Mephistophiles, the tempt- 
ing spirit in the singular play of Faust, appears to me 
more happy than that which has been formed by Byron, 
and even than the Satan of Milton. These last great 
authors have given to the Evil Principle something 
which elevates and dignifies his wickedness ; a sus- 
tained and unconquerable resistance against Omnipo- 
tence itself — a lofty scorn of suffering compared with 
submission, and all those points of attraction in the 
Author of Evil, which have induced Burns and others to 
consider him as the Hero of the Paradise Lost. The 
great German poet has, on the contrary, rendered his 
seducing spirit a being who, otherwise totally unimpas- 
sioned, seems only to have existed for the purpose of in- 
creasing, by his persuasions and temptations, the mass of 
moral evil, and who calls forth by his seductions those 
slumbering passions which otherwise might have allowed 
the human being who was the object of the Evil Spirit’s 
operations to pass the tenor of his life in tranquillity. 
For this purpose Mephistophiles is, like Louis XI., en- 
dowed with an acute and depreciating spirit of caustic 
wit, which is employed incessantly in undervaluing and 
vilifying all actions, the consequences of which do not 
lead certainly and directly to self-gratification. 

Even an author of works of mere amusement may be 
permitted to be serious for a moment, in order to repro- 
bate all policjq whether of a public or private character, 
which rests its basis upon the principles of Machiavel, 
or the practice of Louis XI. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xxiii 


The cruelties, the perjuries, the suspicions of this 
prince, were rendered more detestable, rather than 
amended, by the gross and debasing superstition which 
he constantly practised. The devotion to the heavenly 
saints, of which he made such a parade, was upon the 
miserable principle of some petty deputj^ in office, who 
endeavours to hide or atone for the malversations of 
which he is conscious, by liberal gifts to those whose 
duty it is to observe his conduct, and endeavours to sup- 
port a system of fraud, by an attempt to corrupt the 
incorruptible. In no other light can we regard his 
creating the Virgin Mary a countess and colonel of his 
guards, or the cunning that admitted to one or two 
peculiar forms of oath (a) 1 the force of a binding obli- 
gation, which he denied to all others, strictly preserving 
the secret, which mode of swearing he realty accounted 
obligatory, as one of the most valuable of state mysteries. 

To a total want of scruple, or, it would appear, of any 
sense whatever of moral obligation, Louis XI. added 
great natural firmness and sagacity of character, with a 
system of policy so highly refined, considering the times 
he lived in, that he sometimes overreached himself by 
giving way to its dictates. 

Probably there is no portrait so dark as to be with- 
out its softer shades. He understood the interests of 
France, and faithfully pursued them so long as he 
could identify them with his own. He carried the 
country safe through the dangerous crisis of the war 
termed “for the public good;” in thus disuniting and 
dispersing this grand and dangerous alliance of the 
great crown vassals of France against the Sovereign, a 
King of a less cautious and temporizing character, and 
of a more hold and less crafty disposition than Louis XI., 

1 See Editor's Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a sim- 
ilar reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same direc- 
tion applies. 


xxiv INTRODUCTION TO 

would, in all probability, have failed. Louis had also 
some personal accomplishments not inconsistent with 
his public character. He was cheerful and witty in 
society; caressed his victim like the cat, which can 
fawn when about to deal the most hitter wound; and 
none was better able to sustain and extol the superiority 
of the coarse and selfish reasons by which he endeav- 
oured to supply those nobler motives for exertion, which 
his predecessors had derived from the high spirit of 
chivalry. 

In fact that system was now becoming ancient, and 
had, even while in its perfection, something so over- 
strained and fantastic in its principles, as rendered it 
peculiarly the object of ridicule, whenever, like other 
old fashions, it began to fall out of repute, and the 
weapons of raillery could be emploj^ed against it, with- 
out exciting the disgust and horror with which they 
would have been rejected at an early period, as a species 
of blasphemy. In the fourteenth century a tribe of 
scoffers had arisen, who pretended to supply what was 
naturally useful in chivalry by other resources, and 
threw ridicule upon the extravagant and exclusive prin- 
ciples of honour and virtue, which were openly treated 
as absurd, because, in fact, they were cast in a mould of 
perfection too lofty for the practice of fallible beings. 
If an ingenuous and high-spirited youth proposed to 
frame himself on his father’s principles of honour, he 
was vulgarly derided as if he had brought to the field 
the good old knight’s Durindarte or two-handed sword, 
ridiculous from its antique make and fashion, although 
its blade might be the Ebro’s temper, and its ornaments 
of pure gold. 

In like manner, the principles of chivalry were cast 
aside, and their aid supplied by baser stimulants. In- 
stead of the high spirit which pressed every man 
forward in the defence of his country, Louis XI. substi- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


XXV 


tuted the exertions of the ever ready mercenary soldier, 
and persuaded his subjects, among whom the mercantile 
class began to make a figure, that it was better to leave 
to mercenaries the risks and labours of war, and to 
supply the Crown with the means of paying them, than 
to peril themselves in defence of their own substance. 
The merchants w^ere easily persuaded by .this reasoning. 
The hour did not arrive, in the daj^s of Louis XI., 
when the landed gentry and nobles could be in like 
manner excluded from the ranks 6f war ; but the wily 
monarch commenced that system, which, acted upon 
by his successors, at length threw the whole military 
defence of the state into the hands of the Crown. 

He was equally forward m altering the principles 
which were wont to regulate the intercourse of the sexes. 
The doctrines of chivalry had established in theory at 
least, a system in which Beauty was the governing and 
remunerating divinity — Valour her slave, who caught 
his courage from her eye, and gave his life for her 
slightest service. It is true, the system here, as in 
other branches, was stretched to fantastic extravagance, 
and cases of scandal not unfrequently arose. Still they 
were generally such as those mentioned by Burke, 
where frailty was deprived of half its guilt, by being 
purified from all its grossness. In Louis Xlth’s prac- 
tice, it was far otherwise. He was a low voluptuary, 
seeking pleasure without sentiment, and despising the 
sex from whom he desired to obtain it; his mistresses 
were of inferior rank, as little to be compared with the 
elevated though faulty character of Agnes Sorel, as Louis 
was to his heroic father, who freed France from the 
threatened yoke of England. In like manner, by select- 
ing his favourites and ministers from among the dregs 
of the people, Louis showed the slight regard which he 
paid to eminent station and high birth; and although 
this might be not only excusable but meritorious, where 


xxvi 


INTRODUCTION TO 


the monarch’s fiat promoted obscure talent, or’ called 
forth modest worth, it was very different when the King 
made his favourite associates of such men as Tristan 
l’Hermite, the Chief of his Marshalsea, or police; and 
it was evident that such a prince could no longer be, 
as his descendant Francis elegantly designed himself, 
“ the first gentleman in his dominions.” 

Nor were Louis’s sayings and actions in private or 
public, of a kind which could redeem such gross of- 
fences against the character of a man of honour. His 
word, generally accounted the most sacred test of a 
man’s character, and the least impeachment of which 
is a capital offence by the node of honour, was forfeited 
without scruple on the slightest occasion, and often 
accompanied by the perpetration of the most enormous 
crimes. If he broke his own personal and plighted 
faith, he did not treat that of the public with more 
ceremony. His sending an inferior person disguised 
as a herald to Edward IV., was in those days, when 
heralds were esteemed the sacred depositaries of public 
and national faith, a daring imposition, of which few 
save this unscrupulous prince would have been guilty . 1 

In short, the manners, sentiments, and actions of 
Louis XI. were such as were inconsistent with the 
principles of chivalry, and his caustic wit was suf- 
ficiently disposed to ridicule a system adopted on what 
he considered as the most absurd of all bases, since it 
was founded on the principle of devoting toil, talents, 
and time, to the accomplishment of objects, from which 
no personal advantage could, in the nature of things, be 
obtained. 

It is more than probable that, in thus renouncing 
almost openly the ties of religion, honour, and morality, 
by which mankind at large feel themselves influenced, 
Louis sought to obtain great advantages in his negotia- 
1 See Note IX., Disguised Herald, p. 356 of Vol. XXXII. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xxvn 


tions with parties who might esteem themselves hound, 
while he himself enjoyed liberty. He started from the 
goal, he might suppose, like the racer who has got 
rid of the weights with which his competitors are still 
encumbered, and expects to succeed of course. But 
Providence seems always to unite the existence of pe- 
culiar danger, with some circumstance which may put 
those exposed to the peril upon their guard. The 
constant suspicion attached to any public person who 
becomes badly eminent for breach of faith, is to him 
what the rattle is to the poisonous serpent; and men 
come at last to calculate, not so much on what their 
antagonist says, as upon that which he is likely to do ; 
a degree of mistrust which tends to counteract the 
intrigues of such a faithless character, more than his 
freedom from the scruples of conscientious men can 
afford him advantage. The example of Louis XI. 
raised disgust and suspicion rather than a desire of im- 
itation among other nations in Europe, and the cir- 
cumstance of his outwitting more than one of his 
contemporaries, operated to put others on their guard. 
Even the system of chivalry, though much less generally 
extended than heretofore, survived this profligate mon- 
arch’s reign, who did so much to sully its lustre, and 
long after the death of Louis XI. it inspired the Knight 
without Fear and Reproach, and the gallant Francis I. 

Indeed, although the reign of Louis had been as suc- 
cessful in a political point of view as he himself could 
have desired, the spectacle of his deathbed might of 
itself be a warning-piece against the seduction of his 
example. Jealous of every one, but chiefty of his own 
son, he immured himself in his Castle of Plessis, in- 
trusting his person exclusively to the doubtful faith 
of his Scottish mercenaries. He never stirred from his 
chamber; he admitted no one into it, and wearied 
Heaven and every saint with prayers, not for the for- 


xxviii 


INTRODUCTION TO 


giveness of his sins, but for the prolongation of his 
life. With a poverty of spirit totally inconsistent 
with his shrewd worldly sagacity, he importuned his 
physicians, until they insulted as well as plundered 
him. In his extreme desire of life, he sent to Italy for 
supposed relics, and the yet more extraordinary im- 
portation of an ignorant crack-brained peasant, ( b ) who, 
from laziness probably, had shut himself up in a cave, 
and renounced flesh, fish, eggs, or the produce of the 
dairy. This man, who did not possess the slightest 
tincture of letters, Louis reverenced as if he had been 
the Pope himself, and to gain his good-will founded 
two cloisters. 

It was not the least singular circumstance of this 
course of superstition, that bodil} 7- health and terrestrial 
felicity seemed to be his only objects. Making any 
mention of his sins when talking on the state of his 
health, was strictly prohibited; and when at his com- 
mand a priest recited a prayer to Saint Eutropius, in 
which he recommended the King’s welfare both in 
body and soul, Louis caused the two last words to be 
omitted, saying it was not prudent to importune the 
blessed saint by too many requests at once. Perhaps 
he thought by being silent on his crimes, he might 
suffer them to pass out of the recollection of the celes- 
tial patrons, whose aid he invoked for his body. 

So great were the well-merited tortures of this tyrant’s 
deathbed, that Philip des Comines enters into a regular 
comparison between them and the numerous cruelties 
inflicted on others by his order; and, considering both, 
comes to express an opinion, that the worldly pangs 
and agony suffered by Louis were such as might com- 
pensate the crimes he had committed, and that, after a 
reasonable quarantine in purgatory, he might in mercy 
be found duly qualified for the superior regions. 

Fenelon also has left his testimony against this prince, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xxix 


whose mode of living and governing he has described in 
the following remarkable passage : — 

“Pygmalion, tourmente par une soil insatiable des richesses, 
se rend de plus en plus miserable et odieux a ses sujets. C’est 
un crime a Tyr que d’avoir de grands biens; Tavarice le rend 
defiant, soup^onneux, cruel ; il persecute les riches, et il eraint 
les pauvres. 

“ C’est un crime encore plus grand a Tyr d’avoir de la vertu ; 
car Pygmalion suppose que les bons ne peuvent souffrir ses in- 
justices et ses infamies; la vertu Ie condamne, il s’aigrit et 
s’irrite contre elle. Tout l’agite, l’inquiete, le ronge ; il a peur 
de son ombre; il ne dort ni nuit ni jour; les Dieux, pour le 
confondre, Taccablent de tresors dont il n’ose jouir. Ce qu’il 
cherclie pour etre heureux est precisement ce qui Tempdche 
de l’etre. Il regrette tout ce qu'il donne, et eraint toujours de 
perdre ; il se tourmente pour gagner. 

“ On ne le voit presque jamais ; il est seul, triste, abattu, au 
fond de son palais ; ses amis inemes n’osent Taborder, de peur 
de lui devenir suspects. Une garde terrible tient toujours des 
epees nues et des piques levees autour de sa maison. Trente 
chambres qui communiquent les unes aux autres, et dont cha- 
cune a une porte de fer avec six gros verroux, sont le lieu 
ou il se renferme ; on ne sait jamais dans laquelle de ces 
chambres il couche ; et on assure qu’il ne couche jamais deux 
nuits de suite dans la meme, de peur d’y etre egorge. Il ne 
connoit ni les doux plaisirs, ni l’arnitie encore plus douce. Si 
on lui parle de chercher la joie, il sent qu’elle fuit loin de lui, et 
qu’elle refuse d’entrer dans son eoeur. Ses yeux creux sont 
pleins d’un feu apre et farouche; ils sont sans cesse errans de 
tous cotes ; il prete I’oreille au moindre bruit, et se sent tout 
emu ; il est pale, defait, et les noirs soucis sont points sur son 
visage toujours ride. Il se tait, il soupire, il tire de son eoeur 
de profonds gemissemens, il ne peut cacher les remords qui de- 
chirent ses entrailles. Les mets les plus exquis le degoutent. 
Ses enfans, loin d’etre son esperance, sont le sujet de sa terreur : 
il en a fait ses plus dangereux ennemis. Il n’a eu toute sa vie 
aucun moment d’assure : il ne se conserve qu’a force de re- 
pandre le sang de tous ceux qu’il eraint. Insense, qui ne 
voit pas que sa cruaute, a laquelle il se confie, le fera perir) 


XXX 


INTRODUCTION TO 


Quelqu’un de ses domestiques, aussi defiant que lui, se Mtera 
k delivrer le monde de ce monstre.” 

The instructive, but appalling scene of this tyrants 
sufferings, was at length closed by death, 30th August, 
1485. 

The selection of this remarkable person as the prin- 
cipal character in the romance — for it will be easily 
comprehended, that the^ little love intrigue of Quentin 
is only employed as the means of bringing out the story 
— afforded considerable facilities to the author. The 
whole of Europe was, during the fifteenth century, con- 
vulsed with dissensions from such various causes, that 
it would have required almost a dissertation to have 
brought the English reader with a mind perfectly alive 
and prepared to admit the possibility of the strange 
scenes to which he was introduced. 

In Louis Xlth’s time, extraordinary commotions ex- 
isted throughout all Europe. England’s civil wars were 
ended rather in appearance than realit}^ by the short- 
lived ascendency of the House of York. Switzerland 
was asserting that freedom which was afterwards so 
bravely defended. In the Empire, and in France, the 
great vassals of the crown were endeavouring to eman- 
cipate themselves from its control, while Charles of 
Burgundy by main force, and Louis more artfully by 
indirect means, laboured to subject them to subservience 
to their respective sovereignties. Louis, while with 
one hand he circumvented and subdued his own rebel- 
lious vassals, laboured secretly with the other to aid 
and encourage the large trading towns of Flanders to 
rebel against the Duke of Burgundy, to which their 
wealth and irritability naturally disposed them. In 
the more woodland districts of Flanders, the Duke of 
Gueldres, and William de la Marck, called from his 
ferocity the Wild Boar of Ardennes, were throwing off 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


XXXI 


the habits of knights and gentlemen, to practise the 
violences and brutalities of common bandits. 

A hundred secret combinations existed in the different 
provinces of France and Flanders; numerous private 
emissaries of the restless Louis, Bohemians, pilgrims, 
beggars, or agents disguised as such, were everywhere 
spreading the discontent which it was his policy to 
maintain in the dominions of Burgundy. 

Amidst so great an abundance of materials, it was 
difficult to select such as should be most intelligible 
and interesting to the reader; and the author had to 
regret, that though he made liberal use of the power of 
departing from the reality of history, he felt by no 
means confident of having brought his story into a plea- 
sing, compact, and sufficiently intelligible form. The 
mainspring of the plot is that which all who know the 
least of the feudal system can easily understand, though 
the facts are absolutely fictitious. The right of a 
feudal superior was in nothing more universally ac- 
knowledged than in his power to interfere in the mar- 
riage of a female vassal. This may appear to exist as a 
contradiction both of the civil and canon law, which 
declare that marriage shall be free, while the feudal or 
municipal jurisprudence, in case of a fief passing to a 
female, acknowledges an interest in the superior of the 
fief to dictate the choice of her* companion in marriage. 
This is accounted for on the principle that the superior 
was, by his bounty, the original grantor of the fief, and 
is still interested that the marriage of the vassal shall 
place no one there who may be inimical to his liege lord. 
On the other hand, it might be reasonably pleaded that 
this right of dictating to the vassal to a certain extent 
in the choice of a husband, is only competent to the su- 
perior, from whom the fief is originally derived. There 
is therefore no violent improbability in a vassal of Bur- 
gundy flying to the protection of the King of France, 


xxxii 


INTRODUCTION. 


to whom the Duke of Burgundy himself was vassal; 
nor is it a great stretch of probability to affirm, that 
Louis, unscrupulous as he was, should have formed the 
design of betraying the fugitive into some alliance 
which might prove inconvenient, if not dangerous, to 
his formidable kinsman and vassal of Burgundy. 

I may add, that the romance of Quentin Durward, 
which acquired a popularity at home more extensive 
than some of its predecessors, found also unusual suc- 
cess on the continent, where the historical allusions 
awakened more familiar ideas. 

Abbotsford, 

Iff December, 1831. 


INTRODUCTION . 1 


And one who hath had losses — go to. 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

When honest Dogberry sums up and recites all the 
claims which he had to respectability, and which, as 
he opined, ought to have exempted him from the 
injurious appellation conferred on him by Master 
Gentleman Conrade, it is remarkable that he lays not 
more emphasis even upon his double gown, (a matter 
of some importance in a certain ci-devant capital 
which I wot of,) or upon his being “a pretty piece 
of flesh as any in Messina, ” or even upon the con- 
clusive argument of his being “a rich fellow enough,” 
than upon his being one that hath had losses. 

Indeed, I have always observed your children of 
prosperity, whether by way of hiding their full glow 
of splendour from those whom fortune has treated more 
harshly, or whether that to have risen in spite of 
calamity is as honourable to their fortune as it is to 
a fortress to have undergone a siege, — however this 
be, I have observed that such persons never fail to 
entertain you with an account of the damage they 
sustain by the hardness of the times. You seldom 
dine at a well-supplied table, but the intervals be- 
tween the Champagne, the Burgundy, and the Hock, 
are filled, if your entertainer be a monied man, with 

1 It is scarcely necessary to say, that all that follows ia 
imaginary. 


xxxiv 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


the fall of interest and the difficulty of finding invest- 
ments for cash, which is therefore lying idle on his 
hands ; or, if he be a landed proprietor, with a woful 
detail of arrears and diminished rents. This hath its 
effects. The guests sigh and shake their heads in ca- 
dence with their landlord, look on the sideboard loaded 
with plate, sip once more the rich wines which flow 
around them in quick circulation, and think of the gen- 
uine benevolence, which, thus stinted of its means, still 
lavishes all that it yet possesses on hospitality; and, 
what is yet more flattering, on the wealth, which, un- 
iiminished by these losses, still continues, like the 
inexhaustible hoard of the generous Aboulcasem, 
to sustain, without impoverishment, such copious 
drains. 

This querulous humour, however, hath its limits, 
like to the conning of grievances, which all valetudina- 
rians know is a most fascinating pastime, so long as there 
is nothing to complain of but chronic complaints. But 
I never heard a man whose credit was actually verging 
to decay talk of the diminution of his funds ; and my 
kind and intelligent physician assures me, that it is a 
rare thing with those afflicted with a good rousing 
fever, or any such active disorder, which 

With mortal crisis doth pretend 

His life to appropinque an end, 

to make their agonies the subject of amusing conver- 
sation. 

Having deeply considered all these things, I am no 
longer able to disguise from my readers, that I am 
neither so unpopular nor so low in fortune, as not to 
have my share in the distresses which at present afflict 
the monied and landed interest of these realms. Your 
authors who live upon a mutton chop may rejoice that 
it has fallen to threepence per pound, and, if they have 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXXV 


children, gratulate themselves that the peck-loaf may- 
be had for sixpence ; but we who belong to the tribe 
which is ruined by peace and plenty — we who have 
lands and beeves, and sell what these poor gleaners 
must buy — we are driven to despair by the very events 
which would make all Grub-street illuminate its attics, 
if Grub-street could spare candle-ends for the purpose. 
I therefore put in my proud claim to share in the dis- 
tresses which only affect the wealthy; and write 
myself down, with Dogberry, “ a rich fellow enough,’ ’ 
but still u one who hath had losses.” 

With the same generous spirit of emulation, I have 
had lately recourse to the universal remedy for the 
brief impecuniosity of which I complain — a brief 
residence in a southern climate, by which I have not 
only saved many cart-loads of coals, but have also had 
the pleasure to excite general sympathy for my decayed 
circumstances among those, who, if my revenue had 
continued to be spent among them, would have cared 
little if I had been hanged. Thus, while I drink my vin 
ordinaire , my brewer finds the sale of his small-beer 
diminished — while I discuss my flask of cinq francs , 
my modicum of port hangs on my wine-merchant’s hands 
— while my cotelette a-la-Maintenon is smoking on my 
plate, the mighty sirloin hangs on its peg in the 
shop of my blue-aproned friend in the village. 
Whatever, in short, I spend here, is missed at home ; 
and the few sous gained by the garqon perruquier, nay, 
the very crust I give to his little bare-bottomed, red- 
eyed poodle, are autant de jperdu to my old friend 
the barber, and honest Trusty, the mastiff-dog in the 
yard. So that I have the happiness of knowing at 
every turn, that my absence is both missed and moaned 
by those, who would care little were I in my coffin, 
were they sure of the custom of my executors. 
From this charge of self-seeking and indifference, 


XXXVI 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


however, I solemnly except Trusty, the yard-dog, 
whose courtesies towards me, I have reason to think, 
were of a more disinterested character than those of any 
other person who assisted me to consume the bounty of 
the Public. 

Alas ! the advantage of exciting such general sym- 
pathies at home cannot he secured without incurring 
considerable personal inconvenience. “ If thou wish- 
est me to weep, thou must first shed tears thyself, ” 
says Horace; and, truly, I could sometimes cry myself 
at the exchange I have made of the domestic comforts 
which custom had rendered necessaries, for the foreign 
substitutes which caprice and love of change had ren- 
dered fashionable. I cannot hut confess with shame, 
that my home-bred stomach longs for the genuine 
steak, after the fashion of Dolly’s, hot from the grid- 
iron, brown without, and scarlet when the knife is 
applied; and that all the delicacies of Verv’s carte, 
with his thousand various orthographies of Bifticks 
de Mouton, do not supply the vacancy. Then my 
mother’s son cannot learn to delight in thin po- 
tations; and, in these days when malt is had for 
nothing, I am convinced that a double straick of 
John Barleycorn must have converted “ the poor 
domestic creature, small-beer,” into a liquor twenty- 
times more generous than the acid unsubstantial 
tipple, which here bears the honoured name of wine, 
though, in substance and qualities, much similar to 
your Seine water. Their higher wines, indeed, are 
well enough — there is nothing to except against in 
their Chateau Margout, or Sillery; yet I cannot but 
remember the generous qualities of my sound old 
Oporto. Nay, down to the gargon i*nd his poodle, 
though they are both amusing animals, and play ten 
thousand monkey-tricks which are diverting enough, 
vyet there was more sound humour in the wink with 


INTRODUCTION. 


xxxvil 


which our village Packwood used to communicate the 
news of the morning, than all Antoine’s gambols could 
have expressed in a week, and more of human and 
dog-like sympathy in the wag of old Trusty’s tail, than 
if his rival, Touton, had stood on his hind-legs for a 
twelvemonth. 

These signs of repentance come perhaps a little late, 
and I own, (for I must he entirely candid with my 
dear friend the Public,) that they have been somewhat 
matured by the perversion of my niece Christy to the 
ancient Popish faith by a certain whacking priest in 
our neighbourhood, and the marriage of my aunt 
Dorothy to a demi-solde captain of horse, a ci-devant 
member of the Legion of Honour, and who would, he 
assures us, have been a Field-Marshal by this time, 
had our old friend Bonaparte continued to live and to 
triumph. For the matter of Christy, I must own her 
head had been so fairly turned at Edinburgh with five 
routs a-night, that, though I somewhat distrusted the 
means and medium of her conversation, I was at the 
same time glad to see that she took a serious thought 
of any kind; — 'besides, there was little loss in the 
matter, for the Convent took her off my hands for a 
very reasonable pension. But aunt Dorothy’s marriage 
on earth was a very different matter from Christian’s 
celestial espousals. In the first place, there were two 
thousand three-percents as much lost to my family as if 
the sponge had been drawn over the national slate — for 
who the deuce could have thought aunt Dorothy would 
have married ? Above all, who would have thought a 
woman of fifty years’ experience would have married 
a French anatomy, his lower branch of limbs corre- 
sponding with the upper branch, as if one pair of half- 
extended compasses had been placed perpendicularly 
upon the top of another, while the space on which the 
hinges revolved, quite sufficed to represent the body ? 


xxxviii 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


All the rest was mustache, pelisse, and calico trowser. 
She might have commanded a Polk of real Cossacks in 
1815 , for half the wealth which she surrendered to 
this military scarecrow. However, there is no more 
to be said upon the matter, especially as she had come 
the length of quoting Rousseau for sentiment — and so 
let that pass. 

Having thus expectorated my bile against a land, 
which is, notwithstanding, a very merry land, and 
which I cannot blame, because I sought it, and it did 
not seek me, I come to the more immediate purpose of 
this Introduction, and which, my dearest Public, if I 
do not reckon too much on the continuance of your 
favours, (though, to say truth, consistency and uni- 
formity of taste are scarce to be reckoned upon by 
those who court your good graces,) may perhaps go far 
to make me amends for the loss and damage I have sus- 
tained by bringing aunt Dorothy to the country of thick 
calves, slender ankles, black mustaches, bodiless limbs, 

(I assure you the fellow is, as my friend Lord L 

said, a complete giblet-pie, all legs and wings.) and 
fine sentiments. If she had taken from the half-pay 
list, a ranting Highlandman, ay, or a dashing son of 
Erin, I would never have mentioned the subject; but 
as the affair has happened, it is scarce possible not to 
resent such a gratuitous plundering of her own lawful 
heirs and executors. But “ be hushed my dark spirit ! ” 
and let us invite our dear Public to a more pleasing 
theme to us, a more interesting one to others. 

By dint of drinking acid tiff, as above mentioned, 
and smoking cigars, in which I am no novice, my 
Public are to be informed, that I gradually sipp’d and 
smoked myself into a certain degree of acquaintance 
with un homme comme il faut , one of the few fine old 
specimens of nobility who are still to be found in France: 
who, like mutilated statues of an antiquated and obso* 


INTRODUCTION. 


xxxix 


iete worship, still command a certain portion of awe 
and estimation in the eyes even of those by whom 
neither one nor other are voluntarily rendered. 

On visiting the coffee-house of the village, I was, at 
first, struck with the singular dignity and gravity of 
this gentleman’s manners, his sedulous attachment to 
shoes and stockings, in contempt of half-boots and pant- 
aloons, the croix de Saint Louis at his button-hole, and 
a small white cockade in the loop of his old-fashioned 
schakos. There was something interesting in his whole 
appearance; and besides, his gravity among the lively 
group around him, seemed, like the shade of a tree in the 
glare of a sunny landscape, more interesting from its 
rarity. I made such advances towards acquaintance 
as the circumstances of the place, and the manners of 
the country, authorized — that is to say, I drew near 
him, smoked my cigar by calm and intermitted puffs, 
which were scarcely visible, and asked him those few 
questions which good-breeding everywhere, but more 
especially in France, permits strangers to put, without 
hazarding the imputation of impertinence. The Mar- 
quis de Hautlieu, for such was his rank, was as short 
and sententious as French politeness permitted — he 
answered every question, but proposed nothing, and en- 
couraged no farther enquiry. 

The truth was, that, not very accessible to foreigners 
of any nation, or even to strangers among his own 
countrymen, the Marquis was peculiarly shy towards 
the English. A remnant of ancient national prejudice 
might dictate this feeling; or it might arise from his 
idea that they are a haughty, purse-proud people, to 
whom rank, united with straitened circumstances, affords 
as much subject for scorn as for pity; or, finally, when 
he reflected on certain recent events, he might perhaps 
feel mortified as a Frenchman, even for those suc- 
cesses, which had restored his master to the throne, 


xt QUENTIN DURWARD. 

and himself to a diminished property and dilapidated 
chateau. His dislike, however, never assumed a more 
active form than that of alienation from English so- 
ciety. When the affairs of strangers required the 
interposition of his influence in their behalf, it was 
uniformly granted with the courtesy of a French gen- 
tleman, who knew what is due to himself and to na- 
tional hospitality. 

At length, Ity some chance, the Marquis made the dis- 
covery, that the new frequenter of his ordinary was a 
native of Scotland, a circumstance which told mightily 
in my favour. Some of his own ancestors, he informed 
me, had been of Scottish origin, and he believed his 
house had still some relations in what he was pleased to 
call the province of Hanguisse, in that country. The 
connexion had been acknowledged early in the last cen- 
tury on both sides, and he had once almost determined, 
during his exile, (for it may be supposed that the Mar- 
quis had joined the ranks of Conde, and shared all the 
misfortunes and distresses of emigration,) to claim the 
acquaintance and protection of his Scottish friends. 
But, after all, he said, he cared not to present himself 
before them in circumstances which could do them but 
small credit, and which they might think entailed some 
little burden, perhaps even some little disgrace ; so that 
he thought it best to trust in Providence, and do the 
best he could for his own support. What that was I 
never could learn; hut I am sure it inferred nothing 
which could be discreditable to the excellent old man, 
who held fast his opinions and his loyalty, through 
good and bad repute, till time restored him, aged, indi- 
gent, and broken-spirited, to the country which he had 
left in the prime of youth and health, and sobered by 
age into patience, instead of that tone of high resent- 
ment, which promised speedy vengeance upon those who 
expelled him. I might have laughed at some points of 


INTRODUCTION. 


xli 

the Marquis’s character, at his prejudices, particularly, 
both of birth and politics, if I had known him under 
more prosperous circumstances ; but, situated as he was, 
even if they had not been fair and honest prejudices, 
turning on no base or interested motive, one must have 
respected him as we respect the confessor or the martyr 
of a religion which is not entirely our own. 

By degrees we became good friends, drank our coffee, 
smoked our cigar, and took our bavaroise together, for 
more than six weeks, with little interruption from avo- 
cations on either side. Having, with some difficulty, 
got the key-note of his enquiries concerning Scotland, 
by a fortunate conjecture that the province d’Hanguisse 
could only be our shire of Angus, I was enabled to 
answer the most of his queries concerning his allies 
there in a manner more or less satisfactory, and was 
much surprised to find the Marquis much better ac- 
quainted with the genealogy of some of the distin- 
guished families in that county, than I could possibly 
have expected. 

On his part, his satisfaction at our intercourse was so 
great, that he at length wound himself to such a pitch 
of resolution, as to invite me to dine at the Chateau de 
Hautlieu, well deserving the name, as occupying a com- 
manding eminence on the banks of the Loire. This 
building lay about three miles from the town at which 
I had settled my temporary establishment; and when I 
first beheld it, I could easily forgive the mortified feel- 
ings which the owner testified, at receiving a guest in 
the asylum which he had formed out of the ruins of 
the palace of his fathers. He gradually, with much 
gaiety, which yet evidently covered a deeper feeling, 
prepared me for the sort of place I was about to visit ; 
and for this he had full opportunity whilst he drove 
me in his little cabriolet, drawn by a large heavy Nor- 
man horse, towards the ancient building. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


xlii 

Its remains run along a beautiful terrace overhanging 
the river Loire, which had been formerly laid out with 
a succession of flights of steps, highly ornamented with 
statues, rock-work, and other artificial embellishments, 
descending from one terrace to another, until the very 
verge of the river was attained. All this architectural 
decoration, with its accompanying parterres of rich 
flowers and exotic shrubs, had, many years since, given 
place to the more profitable scene of the vine-dresser’s 
labours; yet the remains, too massive to be destroyed, 
are still visible, and, with the various artificial slopes 
and levels of the high bank, bear perfect evidence how 
actively Art had been here employed to decorate Nature. 

Few of these scenes are now left in perfection; for 
the fickleness of fashion (c) has accomplished in Eng- 
land the total change which devastation and popular 
fury have produced in the French pleasure-grounds. 
For my part, I am contented to subscribe to the 
opinion of the best qualified judge of our time , 1 who 
thinks we have carried to an extreme our taste for sim- 
plicity, and that the neighbourhood of a stately mansion 
requires some more ornate embellishments than can be 
derived from the meagre accompaniments of grass and 
gravel. A highly romantic situation may be degraded, 
perhaps, by an attempt at such artificial ornaments; 
but then, in by far the greater number of sites, the 
intervention of more architectural decoration than is 
now in use, seems necessary to redeem the naked tame- 
ness of a large house, placed by itself in the midst of a 
lawn, where it looks as much unconnected with all 
around, as if it had walked out of town upon an airing. 

1 See Price’s Essay on the Picturesque, in many passages ; but I 
would particularize the beautiful and highly poetical account which 
he gives of his own feelings on destroying, at the dictate of an im- 
prover, an ancient sequestrated garden, with its yew hedges, orna 
uiented iron gates, and secluded wilderness. 


INTRODUCTION. 


xliii 


How the taste came to change so suddenly and abso* 
lutely, is rather a singular circumstance, unless we 
explain it on the same principle on which the three 
friends of the Father in Moliere’s comedy recommend 
a cure for the melancholy of his Daughter — that he 
should furnish her apartments, viz. with paintings — 
with tapestry — or with china, according to the different 
commodities in which each of them was a dealer. Tried 
by this scale, we may perhaps discover, that, of old, the 
architect laid out the garden and the pleasure-grounds 
in the neighbourhood of the mansion, and, naturally 
enough, displayed his own art there in statues and 
vases, and paved terraces and flights of steps, with orna- 
mented balustrades; while the gardener, subordinate in 
rank, endeavoured to make the vegetable kingdom cor- 
respond to the prevailing taste, and cut his evergreens 
into verdant walls, with towers and battlements, and 
his detached trees into a resemblance of statuary. But 
the "wheel has since revolved, so as to place the land- 
scape-gardener, as he is called, almost upon a level with 
the architect; and hence a liberal and somewhat violent 
use is made of spade and pick-axe, and a conversion of 
the ostentatious labours of the architect into a ferine 
ornee , as little different from the simplicity of Nature, 
as displayed in the surrounding country, as the com- 
forts of convenient and cleanly walks, imperiously de- 
manded in the vicinage of a gentleman’s residence, can 
possibly admit. 

To return from this digression, which has given 
the Marquis’s cabriolet (its activity greatly retarded 
by the downward propensities of Jean Boast-beef, 
which I suppose the Norman horse cursed as heartily 
as his countrymen of old time execrated the stolid 
obesity of a Saxon slave) time to ascend the hill by a 
winding causeway, now much broken, we came in 
sight of a long range of roofless buildings, connected 


xliv QUENTIN DURWARD. 

with the western extremity of the castle, which was 
totally ruinous. “I should apologize, ” he said, “to 
(ou, as an Englishman, for the taste of my ancestors, 
<n connecting that row of stables with the architecture 
%1 >f the chateau. I know in your country it is usual 
>o remove them to some distance; but my family had 
m hereditary pride in horses, and were fond of visiting 
tfhem more frequently than would have been convenient 
i ( they had been kept at a greater distance. Before the 
Revolution, I had thirty fine horses in that ruinous 
line of buildings.” 

This recollection of past magnificence escaped from 
him accidentally, for he was generally sparing in allud- 
ing to his former opulence. It was quietly said, without 
any affectation either of the importance attached to e arly 
wealth, or as demanding sympathy for its having past 
away. It awakened unpleasing reflections, however, 
and we were both silent, till, from a partially repaired 
corner of what had been a porter’s lodge, a lively 
French paysanne , with eyes as black as jet, and as 
brilliant as diamonds, came out with a smile, which 
showed a set of teeth that duchesses might have envied, 
and took the reins of the little carriage. 

“Madelon must be groom to-day,” said the Marquis, 
after graciously nodding in return for her deep rever- 
ence to Monsieur, “for her husband is gone to market; 
and for La Jeunesse, he is almost distracted with his 
various occupations. — Madelon,” he continued, as we 
walked forward under the entrance-arch, crowned 
with the mutilated armorial bearings of former lords, 
now half-obscured by moss and rye-grass, not to men- 
tion the vagrant branches of some unpruned shrubs, 
— “Madelon was my wife’s god-daughter, and was 
educated to be fille-de-chambre to my daughter.” 

This passing intimation, that he was a widowed 
husband and childless father, increased my respect 


INTRODUCTION. 


xlv 


for the unfortunate nobleman, to whom every particular 
attached to his present situation brought doubtless its 
own share of food for melancholy reflection. He pro- 
ceeded, after the pause of an instant, with something 
of a gayer tone, — “ You will be entertained with my 
poor La ^miesse,’*' he said, “who, by the way, is 
ten years older than I am” — (the Marquis is above 
sixty) — “he reminds me of the player in the Roman 
Comique , who acted a whole play in his own proper per- 
son — he insists on being maitre d’hotel, maitre de 
cuisine, valet-de-chambre, a whole suite of attendants in 
his own poor individuality. He sometimes reminds me 
of a character in the Bridle of Lammermore, which 
you must have read, as it is the work of one of your gens 
de lettres, qu’on appelle, je crois, le Chevalier Scott .” 1 

“I presume you mean Sir Walter ?” 

“ Yes — the same — the same,” answered the 
Marquis. 

We were now led away from more painful recol- 
lections; for I had to put my French friend right in 
two particulars. In the first I prevailed with diffi- 
culty ; for the Marquis, though he disliked the 
English, yet, having been three months in London, 
piqued himself on understanding the most intricate 
difficulties of our language, and appealed to every 
dictionary, from Florio downwards, that la Bride must 
mean the Bridle. Nay, so sceptical was he on this 
point of philology, that, when I ventured to hint that 
there was nothing about a bridle in the whole story, 
he with great composure, and little knowing to whom 
he spoke, laid the whole blame of that inconsistency 
on the unfortunate author. I had next the common 
candour to inform my friend, upon grounds which no 

1 It is scarce necessary to remind the reader that this passage 
was published during the author’s incognito ; and, as Lucio 
expresses it, spoken “ according to the trick.” 


xlvi 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


one could know so well as myself, that my distinguished 
literary countryman, of whom I shall always speak 
with the respect his talents deserve, was not respon- 
sible for the slight works which the humour of the 
public had too generously, as well as too rashly, 
ascribed to him. Surprised by the impulse of the 
moment, I might even have gone farther, and clenched 
the negative by positive evidence, owning to my 
entertainer that no one else could possibly have written 
these works, since I myself was the author, when I was 
saved from so rash a commitment of myself by the 
calm reply of the Marquis, that he was glad to hear 
these sort of trifles were not written by a person of 
condition. u We read them,” he said, “as we listen 
to the pleasantries of a comedian, or as our ancestors 
did to those of a professed family-jester, with a good 
deal of amusement, which, however, we should be 
sorry to derive from the mouth of one who has better 
claims to our society.” 

I was completely recalled to my constitutional 
caution by this declaration; and became so much 
afraid of committing myself, that I did not even 
venture to explain to my aristocratic friend, that the 
gentleman whom he had named owed his advancement, 
for aught I had ever heard, to certain works of his, 
which may, without injury, be compared to romances 
in rhyme. 

The truth is, that, amongst some other unjust 
prejudices, at which I have already hinted, the 
Marquis had contracted a horror, mingled with con- 
tempt, for almost every species of author-craft, slighter 
than that which compounds a folio volume of law or 
of divinity, and looked upon the author of a romance, 
novel, fugitive poem, or periodical piece of criticism, 
as men do on a venomous reptile, with fear at once 
and with loathing. The abuse of the press, he con- 


INTRODUCTION. 


xlvii 


tended, especially in its lighter departments, had 
poisoned the whole morality of Europe, and was once 
more gradually regaining an influence which had been 
silenced amidst the voice of war. All writers, except 
those of the largest and heaviest calibre, he conceived 
to be devoted to this evil cause, from Rousseau and Vol- 
taire down to Pigault le Brun and the author of the 
Scotch Novels; and although he admitted he read them 
'pour passer le temps , yet, like Pistol eating his leek, it 
was not without execrating the tendency, as he devoured 
the story, of the work with which he was engaged. 

Observing this peculiarity, I backed out of the candid 
confession which my vanity had meditated, and engaged 
the Marquis in farther remarks on the mansion of his 
ancestors. “ There,” he said, “was the theatre where 
my father used to procure an order for the special at- 
tendance of some of the principal actors of the Comedie 
Franqoise, when the King and Madame Pompadour more 
than once visited him at this place; — yonder, more to 
the centre, was the Baron’s hall, where his feudal juris- 
diction was exercised when criminals were to be tried 
by the Seigneur or his bailiff; for we had, like your old 
Scottish nobles, the right of pit and gallows, or fossa 
cum f urea, as the civilians term it; — beneath that lies 
the Question-chamber, or apartment for torture; and, 
truly, I am sorry a right so liable to abuse should have 
been lodged in the hands of any living creature. But,” 
he added, with a feeling of dignity derived even from 
the atrocities which his ancestors had committed be- 
neath the grated window’s to which he pointed, “such 
is the effect of superstition, that, to this day, the peas- 
ants dare not approach the dungeons, in which, it is 
said, the wrath of my ancestors had perpetrated, in for- 
mer times, much cruelty.” 

As we approached the window, while I expressed 
some curiosity to see this abode of terror, there arose 


xlviii 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


from its subterranean abyss a shrill shout of laughter, 
which we easily detected as produced by a group of play- 
ful children, who had made the neglected vaults a 
theatre, for a joyous romp at Colin Maillard. 

The Marquis was somewhat disconcerted, and had 
recourse to his tabatiere ; but, recovering in a moment, 
observed, these were Madelon’s children, and familiar 
with the supposed terrors of the subterranean recesses. 
“Besides,” he added, “to speak the truth, these poor 
children have been born after the period of supposed 
illumination, which dispelled our superstition and our 
religion at once; and this bids me to remind you, that 
this is a jour maigre. The Cure of the parish is my 
only guest, besides yourself, and I would not voluntarily 
offend his opinions. Besides,” he continued, more man- 
fully, and throwing off his restraint, “adversity has 
taught me other thoughts on these subjects than those 
which prosperity dictated; and I thank God I am not 
ashamed to avow, that I follow the observances of my 
church.” 

I hastened to answer, that, though they might differ 
from those of my own, I had every possible respect for 
the religious rules of every Christian community, sen- 
sible that we addressed the same Deity, on the same- 
grand principle of salvation, though with different 
forms ; which variety of worship, had it pleased the 
Almighty not to permit, our observances would have 
been as distinctly prescribed to us as they are laid 
down under the Mosaic law. 

The Marquis was no shaker of hands, but upon the 
present occasion he grasped mine, and shook it kindly 
— • the only mode of acquiescence in my sentiments 
which perhaps a zealous Catholic could, or ought con- 
sistently to have given upon such an occasion. 

This circumstance of explanation and remark, with 
others which arose out of the view of the extensive 


INTRODUCTION. 


xlix 


ruins, occupied us during two or three turns upon the 
long terrace, and a seat of about a quarter of an hour’s 
duration in a vaulted pavilion of freestone, decorated 
with the Marquis’s armorial bearings, the roof of which, 
though disjointed in some of its groined arches, was 
still solid and entire. “Here,” said he, resuming the 
tone of a former part of his conversation, “ I love to sit, 
either at noon, wh.en the alcove affords me shelter from 
the heat, or in the evening, when the sun’s beams are 
dying on the broad face of the Loire — here, in the 
words of your great poet, whom, Frenchman as I am, I 
am more intimately acquainted with than most English- 
men, I love to rest myself, 

* Showing the code of sweet and bitter fancy.’ ” 

Against this various reading of a well-known passage 
in Shakspeare I took care to offer no protest; for 1 
suspect Shakspeare would have suffered in the opinion 
of so delicate a judge as the Marquis, had I proved his 
having written “ chewing the cud,” according to all 
other authorities. Besides, I had had enough of our 
former dispute, having been long convinced, (though 
not till ten years after I had left Edinburgh College,) 
that the pith of conversation does not consist in exhibit- 
ing your own superior knowledge on matters of small 
consequence, but in enlarging, improving, and correct- 
ing the information you possess, by the authority of 
others. I therefore let the Marquis show his code at 
his pleasure, and was rewarded by his entering into a 
learned and well-informed disquisition on the florid 
style of architecture introduced into France during the 
seventeenth century. He pointed out its merits and 
its defects with considerable taste ; and having touched 
on topics similar to those upon which I have formerly 
digressed, he made an appeal of a different kind in their 
favour, founded on the associations with which they 


I QUENTIN DU R WARD. 

were combined. “Who,” he said, “would willingly 
destroy the terraces of the Chateau of Sully, since we 
cannot tread them without recalling the image of that 
statesman, alike distinguished for severe integrity and 
for strong and unerring sagacity of mind? Were they 
an inch less broad, a ton’s weight less massive, or were 
they deprived of their formality by the slightest inflec- 
tions, could we suppose them to remain the scene of his 
patriotic musings ? Would an ordinary root-house be 
a fit scene for the Duke occupying an arm-chair, and 
his Duchess a tabouret — teaching from thence lessons 
of courage and fidelity to his sons, — of modesty and 
submission to his daughters, — of rigid morality to 
both; while the circle of young noblesse listened with 
ears attentive, and eyes modestly fixed on the ground, in 
a standing posture, neither replying nor sitting down, 
without the express command of their prince and pa- 
rent ? — No, Monsieur,” he said, with enthusiasm; 
“destroy the princely pavilion in which this edifying 
family-scene was represented, and you remove from the 
mind the vraisemblance, the veracity, of the whole rep- 
resentation. Or can your mind suppose this distin- 
guished peer and patriot walking in a jardin Anglois ? 
Why, you might as well fancy him dressed with a blue 
frock and white waistcoat, instead of his Henri Quatre 
coat and chapeau a-plumes — Consider how he could 
have moved in the tortuous maze of what you have 
called a ferme ornee, with his usual attendants of two 
files of Swiss guards preceding, and the same number 
following him. To recall his figure, with his beard — 
haut-de-chausses a canon , united to his doublet by ten 
thousand aiguilettes and knots of ribbon, you could not, 
supposing him in a modern jardin Anglois , distinguish 
the picture in your imagination, from the sketch of some 
mad old man, who has adopted the humour of dress- 
ing like his great-great-grandfather, and whom a party 


INTRODUCTION. 


11 


of gens-d’armes were conducting to the Hopital dea 
Fous. But look on the long and magnificent terrace, 
if it yet exists, which the loyal and exalted Sully was 
wont to make the scene of his solitary walk twice a-day, 
while he pondered over the patriotic schemes which he 
nourished for advancing the glory of France; or, at a 
later, and more sorrowful period of life, brooded over 
the memory of his murdered master, and the fate of his 
distracted country; — throw in that noble background 
of arcades, vases, images, urns, and whatever could ex- 
press the vicinity of a ducal palace, and the landscape 
becomes consistent at once. The factionnaires, with 
their harquebusses ported, placed at the extremities of 
the long and level walk, intimate the presence of the 
feudal prince; while the same is more clearly shown by 
the guard of honour which precede and follow him, 
their halberds carried upright, their mien martial and 
stately, as if in the presence of an enemy, yet moved, as 
it were, with the same soul as their princely superior 
— teaching their steps to attend upon his, marching as 
he marches, halting as he halts, accommodating their 
pace even to the slight irregularities of pause and ad- 
vance dictated by the fluctuations of his reverie, and 
wheeling with military precision before and behind 
him, who seems the centre and animating principle of 
their armed files, as the heart gives life and energy to 
the human body. Or, if you smile,” added the Mar- 
quis, looking doubtfully on my countenance, “ at a pro- 
menade so inconsistent with the light freedom of modern 
manners, could you bring your mind to demolish that 
other terrace trod b}' the fascinating Marchioness de 
Sevigne, with which are united so many recollections 
connected with passages in her enchanting letters ? ” 

A little tired of this disquisition, which the Marquis 
certainly dwelt upon to exalt the natural beauties of 
his own terrace, which, dilapidated as it was, required 


lii 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


no such formal recommendation, I informed my com- 
panion, that I had just received from England a journal 
of a tour made in the south of France by a young Ox- 
onian friend of mine, a poet, a draughtsman, and a 
scholar, — in which he gives such an animated and 
interesting description of the Chfiteau-Grignan, the 
dwelling of Madame de Sevigne’s beloved daughter, 
and frequently the place of her own residence, that no 
one who ever read the book would be within forty miles 
of the same, without going a pilgrimage to the spot. 
The Marquis smiled, seemed very much pleased, and 
asked the title at length of the work in question; and 
writing down to my dictation, “An Itinerary of Pro- 
vence and the Phone, made during the year 1819; 
by John Hughes, A.M., of Oriel College, Oxford,” — 
observed, he could now purchase no books for the 
chateau, but would recommend that the Itineraire 
should be commissioned for the library to which he 
was abonne in the neighbouring town. “And here,” 
he said, “comes the Cure, to save us farther disquisi- 
tion; and I see La Jeunesse gliding round the old 
portico on the terrace, with the purpose of ringing the 
dinner-bell — a most unnecessary ceremony for assem- 
bling three persons, but which it would break the old 
man’s heart to forego. Take no notice of him at pre- 
sent, as he wishes to perform the duties of the inferior de- 
partments incognito ; when the bell has ceased to sound, 
he will blaze forth on us in the character of major-domo.” 

As the Marquis spoke, we had advanced towards the 
eastern extremity of the Chateau, which was the only 
part of the edifice that remained still habitable. 

“The Bande Noire,” said the Marquis, “when they 
pulled the rest of the house to pieces, for the sake of 
the lead, timber, and other materials, have, in their 
ravages, done me the undesigned favour to reduce it 
to dimensions better fitting the circumstances of the 


INTRODUCTION. 


liii 


owner. There is enough of the leaf left for the cater- 
pillar to coil up his chrysalis in, and what needs he care 
though reptiles have devoured the rest of the bush ?” 

As he spoke thus, we reached the door, at which La 
Jeunesse appeared, with an air at once of prompt ser- 
vice and deep respect, and a countenance, which, though 
puckered by a thousand wrinkles, was ready to answer 
the first good-natured word of his master with a smile, 
which showed his white set of teeth firm and fair, in 
despite of age and suffering. His clean silk stockings, 
washed till their tint had become yellowish — his cue 
tied with a rosette — the thin grey curl on either side 
of his lank cheek — the pearl-coloured coat, without a 
collar — the solitaire, the jabot, the ruffles at the wrist, 
and the chapeau-bras — all announced that La Jeunesse 
considered the arrival of a guest at the Chateau as an 
unusual event, which was to be met with a correspond- 
ing display of magnificence and parade on his part. 

As I looked at the faithful though fantastic follower 
of his master, who doubtless inherited his prejudices as 
well as his cast-clothes, I could not but own, in my 
own mind, the resemblance pointed out by the Marquis 
betwixt him and my own Caleb, the trusty squire of 
the Master of llavenswood. But a Frenchman, a 
Jack-of -all-trades by nature, can, with much more ease 
and suppleness, address himself to a variety of services, 
and suffice in his own person to discharge them all, 
than is possible for the formality and slowness of a 
Scottishman. Superior to Caleb in dexterity, though 
not in zeal, La Jeunesse seemed to multiply himself 
with the necessities of the occasion, and discharged his 
several tasks with such promptitude and assiduity, that 
farther attendance than his was neither missed nor 
wished for. 

The dinner, in particular, was exquisite. The soup, 
although bearing the term of maigre, which Englishmen 


liv 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


use in scorn, was most delicately flavoured, and the 
matelot of pike and eels reconciled me, though a Scot- 
tishman, to the latter. There was even a petit plat of 
bouilli for the heretic, so exquisitely dressed as to re- 
tain all the juices, and, at the same time, rendered so 
thoroughly tender, that nothing could be more delicate. 
Th ej^otage, with another small dish or two, were equally 
well arranged. But what the old maitre d’hotel valued 
himself upon as something superb, smiling with self- 
satisfaction, and in enjoyment of my surprise, as he 
placed it on the table, was an immense assiettee of 
spinage, not smoothed into a uniform surface, as by our 
uninaugurated cooks upon your side of the water, hut 
swelling into hills, and declining into vales, over which 
swept a gallant stag, pursued by a pack of hounds in 
full cry, and a noble field of horsemen with bugle- 
horns, and whips held upright, and brandished after 
the manner of broadswords — hounds, huntsman, and 
stag, being all very artificially cut out of toasted bread. 
Enjoying the praises which I failed not to bestow on this 
chef d’ceuvre, the old man acknowledged it had cost the 
best part of two days to bring it to perfection; and 
added, giving honour where honour was due, that an idea 
so brilliant was not entirely his own, but that Monsieur 
himself had taken the trouble to give him several valu- 
able hints, and even condescended to assist in the execu- 
tion of some of the most capital figures. The Marquis 
blushed a little at this eclaircissement, which he might 
probably have wished to suppress, but acknowledged 
he had wished to surprise me with a scene from the 
popular poem of my country, Miladi Lac. I answered, 
that so splendid a cortege much more resembled a grand 
chasse of Louis Quatorze than of a poor King of Scot- 
land, and that the pay sage was rather like Fontainbleau 
than the wilds of Callender. He bowed graciously in 
answer to this compliment, and acknowledged that rec- 


INTRODUCTION. 


lv 

Elections of the costume of the old French Court, when 
in its splendour, might have misled his imagination — 
and so the conversation passed on to other matters. 

Our dessert was exquisite — the cheese, the fruits, the 
salad, the olives, the cemeaux , and the delicious white 
wine, each in their way were impayables; and the good 
Marquis, with an air of great satisfaction, observed, 
that his guest did sincere homage to their merits. 
“ After all,” he said, “and yet it is but confessing a 
foolish weakness — but, after all, I cannot but rejoice 
in feeling myself equal to offering a stranger a sort of 
hospitality which seems pleasing to him. Believe me, it 
is not entirely out of pride that we pauvres revenants 
live so very retired, and avoid the duties of hospitality. 
It is true, that too many of us wander about the halls 
of our fathers, rather like ghosts of their deceased pro- 
prietors, than like living men restored to their own 
possessions — yet it is rather on your account, than to 
spare our own feelings, that we do not cultivate the so- 
ciety of our foreign visitors. We have an idea that your 
opulent nation is particularly attached to faste, and to 
grande chere — to your ease and enjoyment of every 
kind; and the means of entertainment left to us are, in 
most cases, so limited, that we feel ourselves totally 
precluded from such expense and ostentation. No one 
wishes to offer his best where he has reason to think it 
will not give pleasure ; and as many of you publish 
your journals, Monsieur le Marquis would not probably 
be much gratified, by seeing the poor dinner which he 
was able to present to Milord Anglois put upon perma- 
nent record.” 

I interrupted the Marquis, that were I to wish an ac- 
count of my entertainment published, it would be only 
in order to preserve the memory of the very best dinner 
I ever had eaten in my life. He bowed in return, and 
presumed “that I either differed much from the national 


Ivi 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


taste, or the accounts of it were greatly exaggerated. 
He was particularly obliged to me for showing the 
value of the possessions which remained to him. The 
useful,” he said, “had no doubt survived the sumptu- 
ous at Hautlieu as elsewhere. Grottoes, statues, curious 
conservatories of exotics, temple and tower, had gone to 
the ground; hut the vineyard, the potager , the orchard, 
the etang, still existed; and once move he expressed 
himself happy to find, that their combined productions 
could make what even a Briton accepted as a tolerable 
meal. I only hope,” he continued, “that you will 
convince me your compliments are sincere, by accept- 
ing the hospitality of the Chateau de Hautlieu as often 
as better engagements will permit during your stay in 
this neighbourhood.” 

I readily promised to accept an invitation offered 
with such grace, as to make the guest appear the person 
conferring the obligation. 

The conversation then changed to the history of the 
Chateau and its vicinity — a subject which was strong 
ground to the Marquis, though he was no great anti- 
quary, and even no very profound historian, when other 
topics were discussed. The Cure, however, chanced 
to be both, and withal a very conversable pleasing man, 
with an air of prevenance , and ready civility of commu- 
nication, which I have found a leading characteristic of 
the Catholic clergy, whether they are well-informed or 
otherwise. It was from him that I learned there still 
existed the remnant of a fine library in the Chateau de 
Hautlieu. The Marquis shrugged his shoulders as the 
Cure gave me this intimation, looked to the one side 
and the other, and displayed the same sort of petty em- 
barrassment which he had been unable to suppress when 
La Jeunesse blabbed something of his interference with 
the arrangements of the cuisine . “I should be happy 
to show the books,” he said, “but they are in such a 


INTRODUCTION. 


lvii 


wild condition, so dismantled, that I am ashamed to 
exhibit them to any one.” 

“ Forgive me, my dear sir,” said the Cure, “you 
know you permitted the great English Bibliomaniac, 
Dr. Dihdin, ( d ) to consult your curious relics, and you 
know how highly he spoke of them.” 

“What could I do, my dear friend ?” said the Mar- 
quis; “the good Doctor had heard some exaggerated 
account of these remnants of what was once a library 
— he had stationed himself in the auberge below, de- 
termined to carry his point or die under the walls. I 
even heard of his taking the altitude of the turret, in 
order to provide scaling-ladders. You would not have 
had me reduce a respectable divine, though of another 
church, to such an act of desperation ? I could not 
have answered it in conscience.” 

“But you know, besides, Monsieur le Marquis,” 
continued the Cure, “that Dr. Dibdin was so much 
grieved at the dilapidation your library had sustained, 
that he avowedly envied the powers of our church, so 
much did he long to launch an anathema at the heads 
of the perpetrators.” 

“His resentment was in proportion to his disap- 
pointment, I suppose,” said our entertainer. 

“Not so,” said the Cure ; “for he was so enthusi- 
astic on the value of what remains, that I am con- 
vinced nothing but your positive request to the contrary 
prevented the Chateau of Hautlieu occupying at least 
twenty pages in that splendid work of which he sent 
us a copy, and which will remain a lasting monument 
of his zeal and erudition.” 

“Dr. Dibdin is extremely polite,” said the Mar- 
quis ; “and, when we have had our coffee — here it 
comes — we will go to the turret ; and I hope, as Mon- 
sieur has not despised my poor fare, so he will pardon 
the state of my confused library, while I shall be 


Iviii 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


equally happy if it can afford any thing which can give 
him amusement. Indeed, ” he added, “were it other' 
wise, you, my good father, have every right over books 
which, without your intervention, would never have 
returned to the owner. ” 

Although this additional act of courtesj^ was- evi- 
dently wrested by the importunity of the Cure from 
his reluctant friend, whose desire to conceal the naked- 
ness of the land, and the extent of his losses, seemed 
always to struggle with his disposition to be obliging, 
I could not help accepting an offer, which, in strict 
politeness, I ought perhaps to have refused. But then 
the remains of a collection of such curiosity as had 
given to our bibliomaniacal friend the desire of leading 
the forlorn hope in an escalade — it would have been 
a desperate act of self-denial to have declined an oppor- 
tunity of seeing it. La Jeunesse brought coffee, such 
as we only taste on the continent, upon a salver, cov- 
ered with a napkin, that it might be cense for silver ; 
and chasse caffe from Martinique on a small waiter, 
which was certainly so. Our repast thus finished, the 
Marquis led me, up an escalier derobe , into a very large 
and well-proportioned saloon, of nearly one hundred 
feet in length ; but so waste and dilapidated, that I 
kept my eyes on the ground, lest my kind entertainer 
should feel himself called upon to apologize for tattered 
pictures and torn tapestry ; and, worse than both, for 
casements that had yielded, in one or two instances, to 
the boisterous blast. 

“ We have contrived to make the turret something 
more habitable,” said the Marquis, as he moved hastily 
through this chamber of desolation. “ This,” he said, 
“was the picture gallery in former times, and in the 
boudoir beyond, which we now occupy as a book-closet, 
were preserved some curious cabinet paintings, whose 
small size required that they should be viewed closely.” 


INTRODUCTION. 


lix 


As he spoke, he held aside a portion of the tapestry 
I have mentioned, and we entered the room of which 
he spoke. 

It was octangular, corresponding to the external 
shape of the turret whose interior it occupied. Four 
of the sides had latticed windows, commanding each, 
from a different point, the most beautiful prospect over 
the majestic Loire, and the adjacent country through 
which it winded ; and the casements were filled with 
stained glass, through two of which streamed the lustre 
of the setting sun, showing a brilliant assemblage of 
religious emblems and armorial bearings, which it was 
scarcely possible to look at with an undazzled eye ; 
but the other two windows, from which the sunbeams 
had passed away, could be closely examined, and plainly 
showed that the lattices were glazed with stained glass, 
which did not belong to them originally, but, as I 
afterwards learned, to the profaned and desecrated 
chapel of the Castle. It had been the amusement of 
the Marquis, for several months, to accomplish this W- 
facimento , with the assistance of the Curate and the all- 
capable La Jeunesse ; and though they had only 
patched together fragments, which were in many 
places very minute, yet the stained glass, till examined 
very closely, and with the eye of an antiquary, pro- 
duced, on the whole, a very pleasing effect. 

The sides of the apartment, not occupied by the 
lattices, were (except the space for the small door) 
fitted up with presses and shelves, some of walnut-tree, 
curiously carved, and brought to a dark colour by time, 
nearly resembling that of a ripe chestnut, and partly 
of common deal, employed to repair and supply the de- 
ficiencies occasioned by violence and devastation. On 
these shelves were deposited the wrecks, or rather the 
precious relics, of a most splendid library. 

The Marquis’s father had been a man of information, 


lx 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


and bis grandfather was famous, even in the Court of 
Louis XIV., where literature was in some degree con- 
sidered as the fashion, for the extent of his acquire- 
ments. Those two proprietors, opulent in their fortunes, 
and liberal in the indulgence of their taste, had made 
such additions to a curious old Gothic library, which 
had descended from their ancestors, that there were 
few collections in France which could be compared to 
that of Hautlieu. It had been completely dispersed, 
in consequence of an ill-judged attempt of the present 
Marquis, in 1790, to defend his Chateau against a 
revolutionary mob. Luckily, the Cure, who, by his 
charitable and moderate conduct, and his evangelical 
virtues, possessed much interest among the neighbour- 
ing peasantry, prevailed on many of them to buy, for 
the petty sum of a few sous, and sometimes at the vul- 
gar rate of a glass of brandy, volumes which had cost 
large sums, but which were carried off in mere spite by 
the ruffians who pillaged the Castle. He himself also 
had purchased as many of the books as his funds could 
possibly reach, and to his care it was owing that they 
were restored to the turret in which I found them. It 
was no wonder, therefore, that the good Cure had 
some pride and pleasure in showing the collection to 
strangers. 

In spite of odd volumes, imperfections, and all the 
other mortifications which an amateur encounters in 
looking through an ill-kept library, there were many art- 
icles in that of Hautlieu, calculated, as Bayes says, “ to 
elevate and surprise ” the Bibliomaniac. There were, 

“ The small rare volume, dark with tarnish’d gold,” 

as Dr. Ferrier feelingly sings — curious and richly 
painted missals, manuscripts of 1380, 1320, and even 
earlier, and works in Gothic type, printed in the fif- 
teenth and sixteenth centuries. But of these I intend 


INTRODUCTION. 


Ixi 


to give a more detailed account, should the Marquis 
grant his permission. 

In the meantime, it is sufficient to say, that, de- 
lighted with the day I had spent at Hautlieu, I fre- 
quently repeated my visit, and that the key of the 
octangular tower was always at my command. In 
those hours I became deeply enamoured of a part of 
French history, which, although most important to 
that of Europe at large, and illustrated by an inimi- 
table old historian, I had never sufficiently studied. 
At the same time, to gratify the feelings of my excel- 
lent host, I occupied myself occasionally with some 
family memorials, which had fortunatel}' been pre- 
served, and which contained some curious particulars 
respecting the connexion with Scotland, which first 
found me favour in the eyes of the Marquis de 
Hautlieu. 

I pondered on these things, more meo, until my 
return to Britain, to beef and sea-coal fires, a change 
of residence which took place since I drew up these 
Gallic reminiscences. At length, the result of my 
meditations took the form of which my readers, if not 
startled by this preface, will presently be enabled to 
judge. Should the Public receive it with favour, I 
shall not regret having been for a short time an 
Absentee. 





QUENTIN DURWARD 


CHAPTER L 

THE CONTRAST. 

Look here upon this picture, and on this, 

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 

Hamlet. 

The latter part of the fifteenth century prepared 
a train of future events, that ended by raising France 
to that state of formidable power, which has ever 
since been, from time to time, the principal object 
of jealousy to the other European nations. Before 
that period, she had to struggle for her very exist- 
ence with the English, already possessed of her 
fairest provinces ; while the utmost exertions of her 
King, and the gallantry of her people, could scarcely 
protect the remainder from a foreign yoke. Nor 
was this her sole danger. The princes who pos- 
sessed the grand fiefs of the crown, and, in parti- 
cular, the Dukes of Burgundy and Bretagne, had 
come to wear their feudal bonds so lightly, that they 
had no scruple in lifting the standard against their 
liege and sovereign lord, the King of France, on 
the slightest pretence. When at peace, they reigned 
as absolute princes in their own provinces ; and the 
House of Burgundy, possessed of the district so 
called, together with the fairest and richest part of 


2 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Flanders, was itself so wealthy, and so powerful, as 
to yield nothing to the crown, either in splendour 
or in strength. 

In imitation of the grand feudatories, each infe- 
rior vassal of the crown assumed as much indepen- 
dence as his distance from the sovereign power, the 
extent of his fief, or the strength of his chateau, 
enabled him to maintain ; and these petty tyrants, 
no longer amenable to the exercise of the law, per- 
petrated with impunity the wildest excesses of fan- 
tastic oppression and cruelty. In Auvergne alone, 
a report was made of more than three hundred of 
these independent nobles, to whom incest, murder, 
and rapine, were the most ordinary and familiar 
actions. * 

Besides these evils, another, springing out of the 
long-continued wars betwixt the French and Eng- 
lish, added no small misery to this distracted king- 
dom. Numerous bodies of soldiers, collected into 
bands, under officers chosen by themselves, from 
among the bravest and most successful adventurers, 
had been formed in various parts of France out of 
the refuse of all other countries. These hireling 
combatants sold their swords for a time to the best 
bidder ; and, when such service was not to be had, 
they made war on their own account, seizing castles 
and towers, which they used as the places of their 
retreat, — making prisoners, and ransoming them, 
— exacting tribute from the open villages, and the 
country around them, — and acquiring, by every 
species of rapine, the appropriate epithets of Ton- 
deurs and Ecorcheurs , that is, Clippers and Flayers. 

In the midst pf the horrors and miseries arising 
from so distracted a state of public affairs, reckless 
and profuse expense distinguished the courts of the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 3 

lesser nobles, as well as of the superior princes ; and 
their dependents, in imitation, expended in rude, 
but magnificent display, the wealth which they 
extorted from the people. A tone of romantic and 
chivalrous gallantry (which, however, was often 
disgraced by unbounded license) characterised the 
intercourse between the sexes ; and the language of 
knight-errantry was yet used, and its observances 
followed, though the pure spirit of honourable love, 
and benevolent enterprise, which it inculcates, had 
ceased to qualify and atone for its extravagances. 
The jousts and tournaments, the entertainments 
and revels, which each petty court displayed, invited 
to France every wandering adventurer ; and it was 
seldom that, when arrived there, he failed to 
employ his rash courage, and headlong spirit of 
enterprise, in actions for which his happier native 
country afforded no free stage. 

At this period, and as if to save this fair realm 
from the various woes with which it was menaced, 
the tottering throne was ascended by Louis XI., 
whose character, evil as it was in itself, met, 
combated, and in a great degree neutralized, the 
mischiefs of the time — as poisons of opposing 
qualities are said, in ancient books of medicine, to 
have the power of counteracting each other. 

Brave enough for every useful and political 
purpose, Louis had not a spark of that romantic 
valour, or of the pride generally associated with it, 
which fought on for the point of honour, wdien the 
point of utility had been long gained. Calm, crafty, 
and profoundly attentive to his own interest, he 
made every sacrifice; both of pride and passion, 
which could interfere with it. He was careful in 
disguising his real sentiments and purposes from all 


4 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


who approached him, and frequently used the 
expressions, “ that the king knew not how to reign, 
who knew not how to dissemble ; and that, for him- 
self, if he thought his very cap knew his secrets, he 
would throw it into the fire.” No man of his own, 
or of any other time, better understood how to avail 
himself of the frailties of others, and when to avoid 
giving any advantage by the untimely indulgence of 
his own. 

He was by nature vindictive and cruel, even to 
the extent of finding pleasure in the frequent exe- 
cutions which he commanded. But, as no touch of 
mercy ever induced him to spare, when he could 
with safety condemn, so no sentiment of vengeance 
ever stimulated him to a premature violence. He 
seldom sprung on his prey till it was fairly within 
his grasp, and till all hope of rescue was vain ; 
and his movements were so studiously disguised, 
that his success was generally what first announced 
to the world the object he had been manoeuvring to 
attain. 

In like manner, the avarice of Louis gave way to 
apparent profusion, when it was necessary to bribe 
the favourite or minister of a rival prince for avert- 
ing any impending attack, or to break up any alliance 
confederated against him. He was fond of license 
and pleasure ; but neither beauty nor the chase, 
though both were ruling passions, ever withdrew 
him from the most regular attendance to public 
business and the affairs of his kingdom. His know- 
ledge of mankind was profound, and he had sought 
it in the private walks of life, in which he often 
personally mingled ; and, though naturally proud 
and haughty, he hesitated not, with an inattention 
to the arbitrary divisions of society which was then 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


5 


thought something portentously unnatural, to raise 
from the lowest rank men whom he employed on 
the most important duties, and knew so well how 
to choose them, that he was rarely disappointed in 
their qualities. 

Yet there were contradictions in the character of 
this artful and able monarch ; for human nature is 
rarely uniform. Himself the most false and insin- 
cere of mankind, some of the greatest errors of his 
life arose from too rash a confidence in the honour 
and integrity of others. When these errors took 
place, they seem to have arisen from an over-refined 
system of policy, which induced Louis to assume 
the appearance of undoubting confidence in those 
whom it was his object to overreach ; for, in his 
general conduct, he was as jealous and suspicious 
as any tyrant who ever breathed. 

Two other points may be noticed to complete the 
sketch of this formidable character, by which he 
rose among the rude chivalrous sovereigns of the 
period to the rank of a keeper among wild beasts, 
who, by superior wisdom and policy, by distribution 
of food, and some discipline by blows, comes finally 
to predominate over those, who, if unsubjected by 
his arts, would by main strength have torn him to 
pieces. 

The first of these attributes was Louis’s excessive 
superstition, a plague with which Heaven often 
afflicts those who refuse to listen to the dictates of 
religion. The remorse arising from his evil actions, 
Louis never endeavoured to appease by any relaxa- 
tion in his Machiavellian stratagems, but laboured, 
in vain, to soothe and silence that painful feeling by 
superstitious observances, severe penance, and pro- 
fuse gifts to the ecclesiastics. The second property, 


6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


with which the first is sometimes found strangely 
united, was a disposition to low pleasures and ob- 
scure debauchery. The wisest, or at least the most 
crafty Sovereign of his time, he was fond of low 
life, and, being himself a man of wit, enjoyed the 
jests and repartees of social conversation more than 
could have been expected from other points of his 
character. He even mingled in the comic adven- 
tures of obscure intrigue, with a freedom little con- 
sistent with the habitual and guarded jealousy of 
his character ; and he was so fond of this species of 
humble gallantry, that he caused a number of its 
gay and licentious anecdotes to be enrolled in a col- 
lection well known to book-collectors, in whose eyes 
(and the work is unfit for any other) the right 
edition is very precious . 1 

By means of this monarch’s powerful and pru- 
dent, though most unamiable character, it pleased 
Heaven, who works by the tempest as well as by 
the soft small rain, to restore to the great French 
nation the benefits of civil government, which, at 
the time of his accession, they had nearly lost. 

Ere he succeeded to the crown, Louis had given 
evidence of his vices rather than of his talents. His 
first wife, Margaret of Scotland, was “ done to death 
by slanderous tongues” in her husband’s Court, 
where, but for the encouragement of Louis himself, 
not a word would have been breathed against that 
amiable and injured princess. He had been an un- 
grateful and a rebellious son, at one time conspiring 

1 This editio princeps which, when in good preservation, is much 
sought after by connoisseurs, is entitled, Les Cent Nouvelles Nou- 
velles, contenant Cent Histoires Nouveaux, qui sont moult plaisans a 
raconter en toutes bonnes compagnies par maniere de joyeuxete. 
Paris, Antoine Verard. Sans date d'annee d’impression ; in-Joho 
gotique. See De BuRE.(e) 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


7 


to seize his father’s person, and at another, levying 
open war against him. For the first offence, he was 
banished to his appanage of Dauphin^, which he 
governed with much sagacity — for the second, he 
was driven into absolute exile, and forced to throw 
himself on the mercy, and almost on the charity, of 
the Duke of Burgundy and his son, where he en- 
joyed hospitality, afterwards indifferently requited, 
until the death of his father in 1461. 

In the very outset of his reign, Louis was almost 
overpowered by a league formed against him by the 
great vassals of France, with the Duke of Burgundy, 
or rather his son, the Count de Charalois, at its 
head. They levied a powerful army, blockaded 
Paris, fought a battle of doubtful issue under its 
very walls, and placed the French monarchy on the 
brink of actual destruction. It usually happens in 
such cases, that the more sagacious general of the 
two gains the real fruit, though perhaps not the 
martial fame of the disputed field. Louis, who had 
shown great personal bravery during the battle of 
Montl’hery, (/) was able, by his prudence, to avail 
himself of its undecided character, as if it had been a 
victory on his side. He temporized until the enemy 
had broken up their leaguer, and showed so much 
dexterity in sowing jealousies among those great 
powers, that their alliance “ for the public weal,” 
as they termed it, but, in reality ; for the overthrow 
of all but the external appearance of the French 
monarchy, dissolved itself, and was never again 
renewed in a manner so formidable. From this 
period, Louis, relieved of all danger from England, 
by the Civil Wars of York and Lancaster, was en- 
gaged for several years, like an unfeeling but able 
physician, in curing the wounds of the body politic, 


8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


or rather in stopping, now by gentle remedies, now 
by the use of fire and steel, the progress of those 
mortal gangrenes with which it was then infected. 
The brigandage of the Free Companies, and the 
unpunished oppressions of the nobility, he laboured 
to lessen, since he could not actually stop them ; 
and, by dint of unrelaxed attention, he gradually 
gained some addition to his own regal authority, or 
effected some diminution of those by whom it was 
counterbalanced. 

Still the King of France was surrounded by doubt 
and danger. The members of the league “ for the 
public weal,” though not in unison, were in exist- 
ence, and, like a scotched snake, might re-unite and 
become dangerous again. But a worse danger was 
the increasing power of the Duke of Burgundy, then 
one of the greatest Princes of Europe, and little 
diminished in rank by the very slight dependence 
of his duchy upon the crown of France. 

Charles, surnamed the Bold, or rather the Auda- 
cious, for his courage was allied to rashness and 
frenzy, then wore the ducal coronet of Burgundy, 
which he burned to convert into a royal and inde- 
pendent regal crown. The character of this Duke 
was in every respect the direct contrast to that of 
Louis XI. 

The latter was calm, deliberate, and crafty, 
never prosecuting a desperate enterprise, and never 
abandoning one likely to be successful, however 
distant the prospect. The genius of the Duke was 
entirely different. He rushed on danger because 
he loved it, and on difficulties because he despised 
them. As Louis never sacrificed his interest to his 
passion, so Charles, on the other hand, never sacri- 
ficed his passion, or even his humour, to any other 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


9 


consideration. Notwithstanding the near relation- 
ship that existed between them, and the support 
which the Duke and his father had afforded to 
Louis in his exile when Dauphin, there was mutual 
contempt and hatred betwixt them. The Duke of 
Burgundy despised the cautious policy of the King, 
and imputed to the faintness of his courage, that he 
sought by leagues, purchases, and other indirect 
means, those advantages, which, in his place, the 
Duke would have snatched with an armed hand. 
He likewise hated the King, not only for the ingrat- 
itude he had manifested for former kindnesses, and 
for personal injuries and imputations which the 
ambassadors of Louis had cast upon him, when his 
father was yet alive, but also, and especially, be- 
cause of the support which he afforded in secret to 
the discontented citizens of Ghent, Liege, and other 
great towns in Flanders. These turbulent cities, 
jealous of their privileges, and proud of their wealth, 
were frequently in a state of insurrection against 
their liege lords the Dukes of Burgundy, and never 
failed to find underhand countenance at the Court of 
Louis, who embraced every opportunity of foment- 
ing disturbance within the dominions of his over- 
grown vassal. 

The contempt and hatred of the Duke were 
retaliated by Louis with equal energy, though he 
used a thicker veil to conceal his sentiments. It 
was impossible for a man of his profound sagacity 
not to despise the stubborn obstinacy which never 
resigned its purpose, however fatal perseverance 
might prove, and the headlong impetuosity, which 
commenced its career without allowing a moment’s 
consideration for the obstacles to be encountered. 
Yet the King hated Charles even more than he con- 


10 


QUENTIN DUKWAKD. 


temned him, and his scorn and hatred were the more 
intense, that they were mingled with fear ; for he 
knew that the onset of the mad bull, to whom he 
likened the Duke of Burgundy, must ever be for- 
midable though the animal makes it with shut eyes. 
It was not alone the wealth of the Burgundian pro- 
vinces, the discipline of the warlike inhabitants, and 
the mass of their crowded population, which the 
King dreaded, for the personal qualities of their 
leader had also much in them that was dangerous. 
The very soul of bravery, which he pushed to the 
verge of rashness, and beyond it — profuse in ex- 
penditure — splendid in his court, his person, and 
his retinue, in all which he displayed the hereditary 
magnificence of the house of Burgundy, Charles the 
Bold drew into his service almost all the fiery spirits 
of the age whose tempers were congenial ; and Louis 
saw too clearly what might be attempted and exe- 
cuted by such a train of resolute adventurers, fol- 
lowing a leader of a character as ungovernable as 
their own. 

There was yet another circumstance which in- 
creased the animosity of Louis towards his overgrown 
vassal ; he owed him favours which he never meant 
to repay, and was under the frequent necessity of tem- 
porizing with him, and even of enduring bursts of 
petulant insolence, injurious to the regal dignity, 
without being able to treat him otherwise than as 
his “ fair cousin of Burgundy.” 

It was about the year 1468, ( g ) when their feuds 
were at the highest, though a dubious and hollow 
truce, as frequently happened, existed for the time 
betwixt them, that the present narrative opens. The 
person first introduced on the stage will be found 
indeed to be of a rank and condition, the illustration 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


n 


of whose character scarcely called for a dissertation 
on the relative position of two great princes ; but 
the passions of the great, their quarrels, and their 
reconciliations, involve the fortunes of all who 
approach them ; and it will be found, on proceed- 
ing farther in our story, that this preliminary 
Chapter is necessary for comprehending the history 
of the individual whose adventures we are about to 
relate 



CHAPTER II. 


THE WANDERER. 

Why then the world is my oyster, which I with sword will 
open. 

Ancient Pistol. 

It was upon a delicious summer morning, before 
the sun had assumed its scorching power, and while 
the dews yet cooled and perfumed the air, that a 
youth, coming from the north-eastward, approached 
the ford of a small river, or rather a large brook, 
tributary to the Cher, near to the royal Castle of 
Plessis-les-Tours, whose dark and multiplied battle- 
ments rose in the background over the extensive 
forest with which they were surrounded. These 
woodlands comprised a noble chase, or royal park, 
fenced by an enclosure, termed, in the Latin of the 
middle ages, Plexitium , which gives the name of 
Plessis to so many villages in France. The castle 
and village of which we particularly speak, was 
called Plessis-les-Tours, to distinguish it from 
others, and was built about two miles to the south- 
ward of the fair town of that name, the capital of 
ancient Touraine, whose rich plain has been termed 
the Garden of France. 

On the bank of the above-mentioned brook, oppo- 
site to that which the traveller was approaching, 
two men, who appeared in deep conversation, seemed, 
from time to time, to watch his motions ; for, as 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


x 3 


their station was much more elevated, they could 
remark him at considerable distance. 

The age of the young traveller might be about 
nineteen, or betwixt that and twenty, and his face 
and person, which were very prepossessing, did not, 
however, belong to the country in which he was now 
a sojourner. His short grey cloak and hose were 
rather of Flemish than of French fashion, while 
the smart blue bonnet, with a single sprig of holly 
and an eagle’s feather, was already recognised as 
the Scottish head-gear. His dress was very neat, 
and arranged with the precision of a youth conscious 
of possessing a fine person. He had at his back a 
satchel, which seemed to contain a few necessaries, 
a hawking gauntlet on his left hand, though he 
carried no bird, and in his right a stout hunter’s 
pole. Over his left shoulder hung an embroidered 
scarf which sustained a small pouch of scarlet velvet, 
such as was then used by fowlers of distinction to 
carry their hawks’ food, and other matters belong- 
ing to that much admired sport. This was crossed 
by another shoulder-belt, to which was hung a hunt- 
ing knife, or couteau d.e chasse. Instead of the 
boots of the period, he wore buskins of half-dressed 
deer’s-skin. 

Although his form had not yet attained its full 
strength, he was tall and active, and the lightness 
of the step with which he advanced, showed that his 
pedestrian mode of travelling was pleasure rather 
than pain to him. His complexion was fair, in spite 
of a general shade of darker hue, with which the 
foreign sun, or perhaps constant exposure to the 
atmosphere in his own country, had, in some degree, 
embrowned it. 

His features, without being quite regular, weie 


i 4 QUENTIN DURWARD 

frank, open, and pleasing. A half smile, which 
seemed to arise from a happy exuberance of animal 
spirits, showed, now and then, that his teeth were 
well set, and as pure as ivory; whilst his bright 
blue eye, with a corresponding gaiety, had an appro- 
priate glance for every object which it encountered, 
expressing good-humour, lightness of heart, and 
determined resolution. 

He received and returned the salutation of the 
few travellers who frequented the road in those 
dangerous times, with the action which suited each. 
The strolling spearman, half soldier, half brigand, 
measured the youth with his eye, as if balancing 
the prospect of booty with the chance of desperate 
resistance ; and read such indications of the latter 
in the fearless glance of the passenger, that he 
changed his ruffian purpose for a surly “ Good 
morrow, comrade,” which the young Scot answered 
with as martial, though a less sullen tone. The 
wandering pilgrim, or the begging friar, answered 
his reverend greeting with a paternal benedicite ; 
and the dark-eyed peasant girl looked after him for 
many a step after they had passed each other, and 
interchanged a laughing good-morrow. In short, 
there was an attraction about his whole appearance 
not easily escaping attention, and which was derived 
from the combination of fearless frankness and good- 
humour, with sprightly looks, and a handsome face 
and person. It seemed, too, as if his whole demean- 
our bespoke one who was entering on life with no 
apprehension of the evils with which it is beset, 
and small means for struggling with its hardships, 
except a lively spirit and a courageous disposition ; 
and it is with such tempers that youth most readily 
sympathizes, and for whom chiefly age and expe- 
rience feel affectionate and pitying interest. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 15 

The youth whom we have described, had been 
long visible to the two persons who loitered on the 
opposite side of the small river which divided him 
from the park and the castle ; but as he descended 
the rugged bank to the water’s edge, with the light 
step of a roe which visits the fountain, the younger 
of the two said to the other, “ It is our man — it is 
the Bohemian ! If he attempts to cross the ford, he 
is a lost man — the water is up, and the ford 
impassable.” 

“Let him make that discovery himself, gossip,” 
said the elder personage ; “ it may, perchance, save 
a rope, and break a proverb.” 

“I judge him by the blue cap,” said the other, 
“ for I cannot see his face. — Hark, sir — he hallooes 
to know whether the water be deep. ,, 

“ Nothing like experience in this world,” answered 
the other — “ let him try.” 

The young man, in the meanwhile, receiving no 
hint to the contrary, and taking the silence of those 
to whom he applied as an encouragement to pro- 
ceed, entered the stream without farther hesitation 
than the delay necessary to take off his buskins. 
The elder person, at the same moment, hallooed to 
him to beware, adding, in a lower tone, to his com- 
panion, “ Mortdieu — gossip — you have made another 
mistake — this is not the Bohemian chatterer.” 

But the intimation to the youth came too late. 
He either did not hear or could not profit by it, 
being already in the deep stream. To one less alert, 
and practised in the exercise of swimming, death 
had been certain, for the brook was both deep and 
strong. 

“ By Saint Anne ! but he is a proper youth,” 
said the elder man — “ Run, gossip, and help your 


i6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


blunder, by giving him aid, if thou canst. He be- 
longs to thine own troop — if old saws speak truth, 
water will not drown him.” 

Indeed, the young traveller swam so strongly, 
and buffeted the waves so well, that, notwithstand- 
ing the strength of the current, he was carried but 
a little way down from the ordinary landing-place. 

By this time the younger of the two strangers 
was hurrying down to the shore to render assist- 
ance, while the other followed him at a graver pace, 
saying to himself as he approached, “ I knew water 
would never drown that young fellow. — By my 
halidome, he is ashore, and grasps his pole ! — If I 
make not the more haste, he will beat my gossip 
for the only charitable action which I ever saw him 
perform, or attempt to perform, in the whole course 
of his life.” 

There was some reason to augur such a conclusion 
of the adventure, for the bonny Scot had already 
accosted the younger Samaritan, who was hastening 
to his assistance, with these ireful words — “ Dis- 
courteous dog ! why did you not answer when I 
called to know if the passage was fit to be at- 
tempted ? May the foul fiend catch me, but I will 
teach you the respect due to strangers on the next 
occasion ! ” 

This was accompanied with that significant flour- 
ish with his pole which is called le moulinet, because 
the artist, holding it in the middle, brandishes the 
two ends in every direction, like the sails of a wind- 
mill in motion. His opponent, seeing himself thus 
menaced, laid hand upon his sword, for he was one 
of those who on all occasions are more ready for 
action than for speech ; but his more considerate 
comrade, who came up, commanded him to forbear, 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


1 7 


and, turning to the young man, accused him in turn 
of precipitation in plunging into the swollen ford, 
and of intemperate violence in quarrelling with a 
man who was hastening to his assistance. 

The young man, on hearing himself thus reproved 
by a man of advanced age and respectable appear- 
ance, immediately lowered his weapon, and said he 
would be sorry if he had done them injustice ; hut, 
in reality, it appeared to him as if they had suffered 
him to put his life in peril for want of a word of 
timely warning, which could be the part neither 
of honest men nor of good Christians, far less of 
respectable burgesses, such as they seemed to be. 

“Fair son,” said the elder person, “you seem, 
from your accent and complexion, a stranger ; and 
you should recollect your dialect is not so easily 
comprehended by us, as perhaps it may be uttered 
by you.” 

“ Well, father,” answered the youth, “ I do not 
care much about the ducking I have had, and I will 
readily forgive your being partly the cause, pro- 
vided you will direct me to some place where I can 
have my clothes dried ; for it is my only suit, and 
I must keep it somewhat decent.” 

“ For whom do you take us, fair son ? ” said the 
elder stranger, in answer to this question. 

“ For substantial burgesses, unquestionably,” said 
the youth ; “ or, hold — you, master, may he a money- 
broker, or a corn-merchant ; and this man a butcher, 
or grazier.” 

“ You have hit our capacities rarely,” said the 
elder, smiling. “ My business is indeed to trade 
in as much money as I can ; and my gossip’s deal- 
ings are somewhat of kin to the butcher’s. As to 
your accommodation, we will try to serve you ; but 


i8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


I must first know who you are, and whither you are 
going ; for, in these times, the roads are filled with 
travellers on foot and horseback, who have any thing 
in their head but honesty and the fear of God” 

The young man cast another keen and penetrat- 
ing glance on him who spoke, and on his silent 
companion, as if doubtful whether they, on their 
part, merited the confidence they demanded ; and 
the result of his observation was as follows. 

The eldest, and most remarkable of these men, 
in dress and appearance resembled the merchant 
or shopkeeper of the period. His jerkin, hose, and 
cloak, were of a dark uniform colour, but worn so 
threadbare, that the acute young Scot conceived 
that the wearer must be either very rich or very 
poor, probably the former. The fashion of the dress 
was close and short — a kind of garments which 
were not then held decorous among gentry, or even 
the superior class of citizens, who generally wore 
loose gowns which descended below the middle of 
the leg. 

The expression of this man’s countenance was 
partly attractive, and partly forbidding. His strong 
features, sunk cheeks, and hollow eyes, had, never- 
theless, an expression of shrewdness and humour 
congenial to the character of the young adventurer. 
But then, those same sunken eyes, from under the 
shroud of thick black eyebrows, had something in 
them that was at once commanding and sinister. 
Perhaps this effect was increased by the low fur 
cap, much depressed on the forehead, and adding 
to the shade from under which those eyes peered 
out ; but it is certain that the young stranger had 
some difficulty to reconcile his looks with the mean- 
ness of his appearance in other respects. His cap 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


19 


in particular, (h) in which all men of any quality 
displayed either a brooch of gold or of silver, was 
ornamented with a paltry image of the Virgin, in 
lead, such as the poorer sort of pilgrims bring from 
Loretto. 

His comrade was a stout-formed, middle-sized 
man, more than ten years younger than his com- 
panion, with a down-looking visage, and a very 
ominous smile, when by chance he gave way to that 
impulse, which was never, except in reply to certain 
secret signs that seemed to pass between him and 
the elder stranger. This man was armed with a 
sword and dagger; and, underneath his plain habit, 
the Scotsman observed that he concealed a jazeran , 
or flexible shirt of linked mail, which, as being often 
worn by those, even of peaceful professions, who 
were called upon at that perilous period to be fre- 
quently abroad, confirmed the young man in his 
conjecture, that the wearer was by profession a 
butcher, grazier, or something of that description, 
called upon to be much abroad. 

The young stranger, comprehending in one glance 
the result of the observation which has taken us 
some time to express, answered, after a moment’s 
pause, “I am ignorant whom I may have the hon- 
our to address,” making a slight reverence at the 
same time, “ but I am indifferent who knows that 
I am a cadet of Scotland ; and that I come to seek 
my fortune in France, or elsewhere, after the cus- 
tom of my countrymen.” 

“ Pasques-dieu ! and *a gallant custom it is,” said 
the elder stranger. “ You seem a fine young spring- 
aid, and at the right age to prosper, whether among 
men or women. What say you ? I am a merchant, 
and want a lad to assist in my traffic — I suppose 


20 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


you are too much a gentleman to assist in such me- 
chanical drudgery ? ” 

“Fair sir,” said the youth, “if your offer he 
seriously made — of which I have my doubts — 1 
am bound to thank you for it, and I thank you ac- 
cordingly; hut I fear I should be altogether unfit 
for your service.” 

“ What ! ” said the senior, “ I warrant thou know- 
est better how to draw the bow, than how to draw 
a bill of charges, — canst handle a broadsword bet- 
ter than a pen — ha ! ” 

“ I am, master,” answered the young Scot, “ a 
braeman, and therefore, as we say, a bowman. But 
besides that, I have been in a convent, where the 
good fathers taught me to read and write, and even 
to cipher.” 

“ Pasques-dieu ! that is too magnificent,” said the 
merchant. “By our Lady of Embrun, thou art a 
prodigy, man ! ” 

“ Rest you merry, fair master,” . said the youth, 
who was not much pleased with his new acquaint- 
ance’s jocularity, “ I must go dry myself, instead of 
standing dripping here, answering questions.” 

The merchant only laughed louder as he spoke, 
and answered, “ Pasques-dieu ! the proverb never 
fails — fier comme un Ecossois — but come, young- 
ster, you are of a country I have a regard for, hav- 
ing traded m Scotland in my time — an honest poor 
set of folks they are ; and, if you will come with us 
to the village, I will bestow on you a cup of burnt 
sack and a warm breakfast, to ‘atone for your drench- 
ing. — But, tete-bleau ! what do you with a hunt- 
ing-glove on your hand ? Know you not there is 
no hawking permitted in a royal chase ? ” 

“ I was taught that lesson,” answered the youth, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


21 


“ by a rascally forester of the Duke of Burgundy. 
I did but fly the falcon I had brought with me from 
Scotland, and that I reckoned on for bringing me 
into some note, at a heron near Peronne, and the 
rascally schelm shot my bird with an arrow.” 

“ What did you do ? ” said the merchant. 

“ Beat him,” said the youngster, brandishing his 
staff, “as near to death as one Christian man should 
belabour another — I wanted not to have his blood 
to answer for.” 

“ Know you,” said the burgess, “ that had you 
fallen into the Duke of Burgundy’s hands, he would 
have hung you up like a chestnut ? ” 

“ Ay, I am told he is as prompt as the King of 
France for that sort of work. But, as this happened 
near Peronne, I made a leap over the frontiers, and 
laughed at him. If he had not been so hasty, I 
might perhaps have taken service with him.” 

“ He will have a heavy miss of such a paladin 
as yt)u are, if the truce should break off,” said the 
merchant, and threw a look at his own companion, 
who answered him with one of the downcast lower- 
ing smiles, which gleamed along his countenance, 
enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter 
sky. 

The young Scot suddenly stopped, pulled his 
bonnet over his right eyebrow, as one that would 
not be ridiculed, and said firmly, “ My masters, 
and especially you, sir, the elder, and who should 
be the wiser, you will find, I presume, no sound or 
safe jesting at my expense. I do not altogether 
like the tone of your conversation. I can take a 
jest with any man, and a rebuke, too, from my elder, 
and say thank you, sir, if I know it to be deserved ; 
but I do not like being borne in hand as if I were 


22 


QUEJVfIN DURWARD. 


a child, when, God wot, I find myself man enough 
to belabour you both, if you provoke me too far.” 

The eldest man seemed like to choke with laugh- 
ter at the lad’s demeanour — his companion’s hand 
stole to his sword-hilt, which the youth observing, 
dealt him a blow across the wrist, which made him 
incapable of grasping it ; while his companion’s 
mirth was only increased by the incident. “ Hold, 
hold,” he cried, “ most doughty Scot, even for thine 
own dear country’s sake ; and you, gossip, forbear 
your menacing look. Pasques-dieu ! let us be just 
traders, and set off the wetting against the knock 
on the wrist, which was given with so much grace 
and alacrity. — And hark ye, my young friend,” he 
said to the young man with a grave sternness, which, 
in spite of all the youth could do, damped and over- 
awed him, “ no more violence. I am no fit object 
for it, and my gossip, as you may see, has had 
enough of it. Let me know your name.” 

“I can answer a civil question civilly,” said* the 
youth; “and will pay fitting respect to your age, 
if you do not urge my patience with mockery. 
Since I have been here in France and Flanders, men 
have called me, in their fantasy, the Yarlet with the 
Velvet Pouch, because of this hawk purse which I 
carry by my side ; but my true name, when at 
home, is Quentin Durward.” 

“ Durward ! ” said the querist ; “ is it a gentle- 
man’s name ? ” 

“By fifteen descents in our family,” said the 
young man ; “ and that makes me reluctant to fol- 
low any other trade than arms.” 

“ A true Scot ! Plenty of blood, plenty of pride, 
and right great scarcity of ducats, I warrant thee. — - 
Well, gossip,” he said to his companion, “ go before 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


23 


us, and tell them to have some breakfast ready yon- 
der at the Mulberry-grove ; for this youth will do 
as much honour to it as a starved mouse to a house- 
wife’s cheese. And for the Bohemian — hark in 
thy ear ” 

His comrade answered by a gloomy, but intelli- 
gent smile, and set forward at a round pace, while 
the elder man continued, addressing young Dur- 
ward, — “ You and I will walk leisurely forward 
together, and we may take a mass at Saint Hubert’s 
Chapel in our way through the forest ; for it is not 
good to think of our fleshly before our spiritual 
wants.” 

Durward, as a good Catholic, had nothing to 
object against this proposal, although he might pro- 
bably have been desirous, in the first place, to have 
dried his clothes and refreshed himself. • Meanwhile, 
they soon lost sight of their downward-looking com- 
panion, but continued to follow the same path which 
he had taken, until it led them into a wood of tall 
trees, mixed with thickets and brushwood, tra- 
versed by long avenues, through which were seen, 
as through a vista, the deer trotting in little herds 
with a degree of security which argued their con- 
sciousness of being completely protected. 

“ You asked me if I were a good bowman,” said 
the young Scot — “ Give me a bow and a brace of 
shafts, and you shall have a piece of venison in a 
moment.” 

“ Pasques-dieu ! my young friend,” said his com- 
panion, “ take care of that ; my gossip yonder hath 
a special eye to the deer ; they are under his charge, 
and he is a strict keeper.” 

“ He hath more the air of a butcher, than of a 
gay forester,” answered Durward. “ I cannot think 


24 


QUENTIN DURTVARD. 


yon hang-dog look of his belongs to any one who 
knows the gentle rules of woodcraft.” 

“ Ah, my young friend,” answered his companion, 
“ my gossip hath somewhat an ugly favour to 
look upon at the first ; but those who become 
acquainted with him, never are known to complain 
of him ” 

Quentin Durward found something singularly 
and disagreeably significant in the tone with which 
this was spoken ; and, looking suddenly at the 
speaker, thought he saw in his countenance, in the 
slight smile that curled his upper lip, and the ac- 
companying twinkle of his keen dark eye, some- 
thing to justify his unpleasing surprise. “ I have 
heard of robbers,” he thought to himself, “ and of 
wily cheats and cut-throats — what if yonder fellow 
be a murderer, and this old rascal his decoy-duck ? 
I will be on my guard — they will get little by me 
but good Scottish knocks.” 

While he was thus reflecting they came to a glade, 
where the large forest trees were more widely sep- 
arated from each other, and where the ground be- 
neath, cleared of underwood and bushes, was clothed 
with a carpet of the . softest and most lovely verdure, 
which, screened from the scorching heat of the sun, 
was here more beautifully tender than it is usually 
to be seen in France. The trees in this secluded 
spot were chiefly beeches and elms of huge magni- 
tude, which rose like great hills of leaves into the 
air. Amidst these magnificent sons of the earth, 
there peeped out, in the most open spot of the glade, 
a lowly chapel, near which trickled a small rivulet. 
Its architecture was of the rudest and most simple 
kind; and there was a very small lodge beside it, 
for the accommodation of a hermit or solitary priest, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


25 


who remained there for regularly discharging the 
duty of the altar. In a small niche, over the arched 
doorway, stood a stone image of Saint Hubert, with 
the bugle-horn around his neck, and a leash of grey- 
hounds at his feet. The situation of the chapel in 
the midst of a park or chase, so richly stocked with 
game, made the dedication to the Sainted Huntsman 
peculiarly appropriate . 1 

Towards this little devotional structure the old 
man directed his steps, followed by young Durward ; 
and, as they approached, the priest, dressed in his 
sacerdotal garments, made his appearance, in the 
act of proceeding from his cell to the chapel, for the 
discharge, doubtless, of his holy office. Durward 
bowed his body reverently to the priest, as the 
respect due to his sacred office demanded ; whilst his 
companion, with an appearance of still more deep 
devotion, kneeled on one knee to receive the holy 
man’s blessing, and then followed him into church, 
with a step and manner expressive of the most 
heartfelt contrition and humility. 

1 Every vocation had, in the middle ages, its protecting saint. 
The chase, with its fortunes and its hazards, the business of so 
many, and the amusement of all, was placed under the direction of 
Saint Hubert. 

This silvan saint was the son of Bertrand, Duke of Acqui- 
taine, and, while in the secular state, was a courtier of King 
Pepin. He was passionately fond of the chase, and used to 
* neglect attendance on divine worship for this amusement 
While he was once engaged in this pastime, a stag appeared 
before him, having a crucifix bound betwixt his horns, and he 
heard a voice which menaced him with eternal punishment if 
he did not repent of his sins. He retired from the world and 
took orders, his wife having also retreated into the cloister. 
Hubert afterwards became Bishop of Maestrecht and Liege; 
and from his zeal in destroying remnants of idolatry, is called 
the Apostle of Ardennes and of* Brabant. Those who Avere 
descended of his race were supposed to possess the power of cur 
ing persons bitten by mad dogs. 


26 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


The inside of the chapel was adorned in a man- 
ner adapted to the occupation of the patron-saint 
while on earth. The richest furs of such animals as 
are made the objects of the chase in different coun- 
tries, supplied the place of tapestry and hangings 
around the altar and elsewhere, and the character- 
istic emblazonments of bugles, bows, quivers, and 
other emblems of hunting, surrounded the walls, and 
were mingled with the heads of deer, wolves, and 
other animals considered beasts of sport. The whole 
adornments took an appropriate and silvan character; 
and the mass itself, being considerably shortened, 
proved to be of that sort which is called a hunting- 
masS, because in use before the noble and powerful, 
who, while assisting at the solemnity, are usually 
impatient to commence their favourite sport. 

Yet, during this brief ceremony, Dur ward’s com- 
panion seemed to pay the most rigid and scrupulous 
attention ; while Durward, not quite so much occu- 
pied with religious thoughts, could not forbear 
blaming himself in his own mind, for having enter- 
tained suspicions derogatory to the character of so 
good and so humble a man. Far from now holding 
him as a companion and accomplice of robbers, he 
had much to do to forbear regarding him as a saint- 
like personage. 

When mass was ended, they retired togethei* ^ 
from the chapel, and the elder said to his young 
comrade, “ It is but a short walk from hence to 
the village — you may now break your fast with an 
unprejudiced conscience — follow me.” 

Turning to the right, and proceeding along a 
path which seemed gradually to ascend, he recom- 
mended to his companion by no means to quit the 
track, but, on the contrary, to keep the middle of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


27 


it as nearly as he could. Durward could not help 
asking the cause of this precaution. 

“ You are now near the Court, young man,” 
answered his guide ; “ and, Pcisques-dieu ! there is 
some difference betwixt walking in this region and 
on your own heathy hills. Every yard of this 
ground, excepting the path which we now occupy, is 
rendered dangerous, and wellnigh impracticable, by 
snares and traps, armed with scythe-blades, which 
shred off the unwary passenger’s limb as sheerly as 
a hedge-bill lops a hawthorn-sprig — and calthrops 
that would pierce your foot through, and pit-falls 
deep enough to bury you in them for ever ; for you 
are now within the precincts of the royal demesne, 
and we shall presently see the front of the Chateau.” 

“Were I the King of France,” said the young 
man, “ I would not take so much trouble with traps 
and gins, but would try instead to govern so well, 
that no man should dare to come near my dwelling 
with a bad intent ; and for those who came there in 
peace and good-will, why, the more of them the 
merrier we should be.” 

His companion looked round affecting an alarmed 
gaze, and said, “Hush, hush, Sir Yarlet with the 
Velvet Pouch ! for I forgot to tell you, that one 
great danger of these precincts is, that the very 
leaves of the trees are like so many ears, which 
carry all which is spoken to the King’s own cabinet.” 

“ I care little for that,” answered Quentin Dur- 
ward ; “ I bear a Scottish tongue in my head, bold 
enough to speak my mind to King Louis’s face, 
God bless him — and, for the ears you talk of, if I 
could see them growing on a human head, I would 
crop them out of it with my wood-knife.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE CASTLE. 

Full in the midst a mighty pile arose, 

Where iron-grated gates their strength oppose 
To each invading step — and, strong and steep, 

The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep. 

Slow round the fortress roll’d the sluggish stream, 

And high in middle air the warder’s turrets gleam. 

Anonymous. 

While Durward and his new acquaintance thus 
spoke, they came in sight of the whole front of the 
Castle of Plessis-les-Tours, which, even in those 
dangerous times, when the great found themselves 
obliged to reside within places of fortified strength, 
was distinguished for the extreme and jealous care 
with which it was watched and defended. 

From the verge of the wood where young Dur- 
ward halted with his companion, in order to take a 
view of this royal residence, extended, or rather 
arose, though by a very gentle elevation, an open 
esplanade, devoid of trees and bushes of every de- 
scription, excepting one gigantic and half-withered 
old oak. This space was left open, according to the 
rules of fortification in all ages, in order that an 
enemy might not approach the walls under cover, 
or unobserved from the battlements, and beyond it 
arose the Castle itself. 

There were three external walls, battlemented 
and turreted from space to space, and at each angle. 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


29 


the second enclosure rising higher than the first, and 
being built so as to command the exterior defence 
in case it was won by the enemy ; and being again, 
in the same manner, itself commanded by the third 
and innermost barrier. Around the external wall, 
as the Frenchman informed his young companion, 
(for, as they stood lower than the foundation of the 
wall, he could not see it,) was sunk a ditch of about 
twenty feet in depth, supplied with water by a dam- 
head on the river Cher, or rather on one of its 
tributary branches. I11 front of the second enclo- 
sure, he said, there ran another fosse, and a third, 
both of the same unusual dimensions, was led be- 
tween the second and the innermost enclosure. The 
verge, both of the outer and inner circuit of this 
triple moat, was strongly fenced with palisades of 
iron, serving the purpose of what are called chevaux- 
de-frise in modern fortification, the top of each pale 
being divided into a cluster of sharp spikes, which 
seemed to render any attempt to climb over an act 
of self-destruction. 

From within the innermost enclosure arose the 
Castle itself, containing buildings of different pe- 
riods, crowded around, and united with the ancient 
and grim-looking donjon-keep, which was older 
than any of them, and which rose, like a black 
Ethiopian giant, high into the air, while the absence 
of any windows larger than shot-holes, irregularly 
disposed for defence, gave the spectator the same 
unpleasant feeling which we experience on looking 
at a blind man. The other buildings seemed scarcely 
better adapted for the purposes of comfort, for 
the windows opened to an inner and enclosed court- 
yard ; so that the whole external front looked 
much more like that of a prison than a palace. The 


30 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


reigning King had even increased this effect ; for, 
desirous that the additions which he himself had 
made to the fortifications should be of a character 
not easily distinguished from the original building, 
(for like many jealous persons, he loved not that 
his suspicions should be observed,) the darkest-col- 
oured brick and freestone were employed, and soot 
mingled with the lime, so as to give the whole 
Castle the same uniform tinge of extreme and rude 
antiquity. 

This formidable place had but one entrance, at 
least Durward saw none along the spacious front, 
except where, in the centre of the first and outward 
boundary, arose two strong towers, the usual de- 
fences of a gateway ; and he could observe their 
ordinary accompaniments, portcullis and drawbridge 
— of which the first was lowered, and the last raised. 
Similar entrance-towers were visible on the second 
and third bounding wall, but not in the same line 
with those on the outward circuit; because the 
passage did not cut right through the whole three 
enclosures at the same point, but, on the contrary, 
those who entered had to proceed nearly thirty yards 
betwixt the first and second wall, exposed, if their 
purpose were hostile, to missiles from both ; and 
again, when the second boundary was passed, they 
must make a similar digression from the straight 
line, in order to attain the portal of the third and 
innermost enclosure ;• so that before gaining the outer 
court, which ran along the front of the building, 
two narrow and dangerous defiles were to be tra- 
versed under a flanking discharge of artillery, and 
three gates, defended in the strongest manner known 
to the age, were to be successively forced. 

Coming from a country ’alike desolated by foreign 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3i 


war and internal feuds, — a country, too, whose 
unequal and mountainous surface, abounding in pre- 
cipices and torrents, affords so many situations of 
strength, — young Durward was sufficiently ac- 
quainted with all the various contrivances by which 
men, in that stern age, endeavoured to secure their 
dwellings ; but he frankly owned to his companion, 
that he did not think it had been in the power of 
art to do so much for defence, where nature had 
done so little ; for the situation, as we have hinted, 
was merely the summit of a gentle elevation as- 
scending upwards from the place where they were 
standing. 

To enhance his surprise, his companion told him 
that the environs of the Castle, except the single 
winding-path by which the portal might be safely 
approached, were, like the thickets through which 
they had passed, surrounded with every species of 
hidden pit-fall, snare, and gin, to entrap the wretch 
who should venture thither without a guide ; that 
upon the walls were constructed certain cradles of 
iron, called swallows' nests, from which the sentinels, 
who were regularly posted there, could, without 
being exposed to any risk, take deliberate aim at 
any who should attempt to enter without the proper 
signal or pass-word of the day ; and that the Archers 
of the Royal Guard performed that duty day and 
night, for which they received high pay, rich cloth- 
ing, and much honour and profit at the hands of 
King Louis. “ And now tell me, young man,” he 
continued, “ did you ever see so strong a fortress, 
and do you think there are men bold enough to 
storm it ? ” 

The young man looked long and fixedly on the 
place, the sight of which interested him so much. 


32 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


that he had forgotten, in the eagerness of youthful 
curiosity, the wetness of his dress. His eye glanced, 
and his colour mounted to his cheek like that of a 
daring man who meditates an honourable action, 
as he replied, “It is a strong castle, and strongly 
guarded ; but there is no impossibility to brave 
men.” 

“ Are there any in your country who could do 
such a feat ? ” said the elder, rather scornfully. 

“I will not affirm that,” answered the youth; 
“ but there are thousands that, in a good cause, 
would attempt as bold a deed.” 

“Umph!” — said the senior, “perhaps you are 
yourself such a gallant ? ” 

“ I should sin if I were to boast where there is 
no danger,” answered young Durward ; “ but my 
father has done as bold an act, and I trust I am no 
bastard.” 

“ Well,” said his companion, smiling, “ you might 
meet your match, and your kindred withal in the 
attempt ; for the Scottish Archers of King Louis’s 
Life-guards stand sentinels on yonder walls — three 
hundred gentlemen of the best blood in your 
country.” 

“And were I King Louis,” said the youth, in 
reply, “ I would trust my safety to the faith of the 
three hundred Scottish gentlemen, throw down my 
bounding walls to fill up the moat, call in my noble 
peers and paladins, and live as became me, amid 
breaking of lances in gallant tournaments, and feast- 
ing of days with nobles, and dancing of nights with 
ladies, and have no more fear of a foe than I have 
of a fly.” • 

His companion again smiled, and turning his 
back on the Castle, which, he observed, they had 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


33 


approached a little too nearly, he led the way again 
into the wood, by a more broad and beaten path 
than they had yet trodden. “ This,” he said, “ leads 
us to the village of Plessis, as it is called, where 
you, as a stranger, will find reasonable and honest 
accommodation. About two miles onward lies the 
fine city of Tours, which gives name to this rich 
and beautiful earldom. But the village of Plessis, 
or Plessis of the Park, as it is sometimes called, 
from its vicinity to the royal residence, and the 
chase with which it is encircled, will yield you 
nearer, and as convenient hospitality.” 

“ I thank you, kind master, for your informa- 
tion,” said the Scot ; “but my stay will be so short 
here, that if I fail not in a morsel of meat, and a 
drink of something better than water, my necessi- 
ties in Plessis, be it of the park or the pool, will be 
amply satisfied.” 

“Nay,” answered his companion, “I thought you 
had some friend to see in this quarter.” 

“ And so I have — my mother’s own brother,” 
answered Durward ; “and as pretty a man, before 
he left the braes of Angus, as ever planted brogue 
on heather.” 

“ What is his name ? ” said the senior ; “ we will 
enquire him out for you ; for it is not safe for you 
to go up to the Castle, where you might be taken 
for a spy.” 

“Now, by my father’s hand.!” said the youth, 
“ I taken for a spy ! — By Heaven, he shall brook 
cold iron that brands me with such a charge ! — 
But for my uncle’s name, I care not who knows 
it — it is Lesly. Lesly — an honest and noble 
name.” 

“ And so it is, I doubt not,” said the old man ; 


34 QUENTIN DU R WARD. 

“ but there are three of the name in the Scottish 
Guard.” 

“My uncle’s name is Ludovic Lesly,” said the 
young man. 

“ Of the three Leslies,” answered the merchant, 
" two are called Ludovic.” 

“ They call my kinsman Ludovic with the Scar,” 
said Quentin. — “ Our family names are so common 
in a Scottish house, that where there is no land in 
the case, we always give a to-name .” 

“ A nom de guerre, I suppose you to mean,” an- 
swered his companion ; “ and the man you speak 
of, we, I think, call Le Balafrt, from that scar on 
his face — a proper man and a good soldier. I wish 
I may be able to help you to an interview with him, 
for he belongs to a set of gentlemen whose duty is 
strict, and who do not often come out of garrison, 
unless in the immediate attendance on the King’s 
person. — And now, young man, answer me one 
question. I will wager you are desirous to take 
service with your uncle in the Scottish Guard. It 
is a great thing, if you propose so; especially as 
you are very young, and some years’ experience is 
necessary for the high office which you aim at.” 

“Perhaps I may have thought on some such 
thing,” said Durward, carelessly; “but ii I did, 
the fancy is off.” 

“ How so, young man ? ” said the Frenchman, 
something sternly — “ Do you speak thus of a charge 
which the most noble of your countrymen feel 
themselves emulous to be admitted to ? ” 

“ I wish them joy of it,” said Quentin, compos- 
edly. — “ To speak plain, I should have liked the 
service of the French King full well; only, dress 
me as fine, and feed me as high as you will, I love 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


35 


the open air better than being shut up in a cage or 
a swallow’s nest yonder, as you call these same 
grated pepper-boxes. Besides,” he added, in a 
lower voice, “ to speak truth, I love not the Castle 
when the covin-tree 1 (i) bears such acorns as I see 
yonder.” 

“ I guess what you mean,” said the Frenchman ; 
“ but speak yet more plainly.” 

“ To speak more plainly, then,” said the youth, 
“ there grows a fair oak some flight-shot or so from 
yonder Castle — and on that oak hangs a man in a 
grey jerkin, such as this which I wear.” 

“Ay and indeed! ’’said the man of France — 
“ Pasques-dieu ! see what it is to have youthful eyes ! 
Why, I did see something, but only took it for a 
raven among the branches. But the sight is no way 
strange, young man ; when the summer fades into 
autumn, and moonlight nights are long, and roads 
become unsafe, you will see a cluster of ten, ay of 
twenty such acorns, hanging on that old doddered 
oak. — But what then ? — they are so many banners 
displayed to scare knaves; and for each rogue that 
hangs there, an honest man may reckon that there 
is a thief, a traitor, a robber on the highway, a 
'pilleur and oppressor of the people, the fewer in 
France. These, young man, are signs of our Sove- 
reign’s justice.” 

“ I would have hung them farther from my palace, 
though, were I King Louis,” said the youth. — “ In 
my country, we hang up dead corbies where living 
corbies haunt, but not in our gardens or pigeon- 

1 The large tree in front of a Scottish castle, was sometimes 
called so. It is difficult to trace the derivation ; hut at that dis- 
tance from the castle, the laird received guests of rank, and 
thither he convoyed them on their departure. 


36 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


houses. The very scent of the carrion — faugh — 
reached my nostrils at the distance where we 
stood.” 

“ If you live to be an honest and loyal servant 
of your Prince, my good youth,” answered the 
Frenchman, “ you will know there is no perfume 
to match the scent of a dead traitor.” 

“ I shall never wish to live till I lose the scent 
of my nostrils or the sight of my eyes,” said the 
Scot. — “Show me a living traitor, and here are my 
hand and my weapon ; but when life is out, hatred 
should not live longer. — But here, I fancy, we come 
upon the village ; where I hope to show you that 
neither ducking nor disgust have spoiled mine ap- 
petite for my breakfast. So, my good friend to the 
hostelrie, with all the speed you may. — Yet, ere I 
accept of your hospitality, let me know by what 
name to call you.” 

“ Men call me Maitre Pierre,” answered his 
companion. — “I deal in no titles. A plain man, 
that can live on mine own good — that is my 
designation.” 

“ So be it, Maitre Pierre,” said Quentin, “ and I 
am happy my good chance has thrown us together ; 
for I want a word of seasonable advice, and can be 
thankful for it.” 

While they spoke thus, the tower of the church, 
and a tall wooden crucifix, rising above the trees, 
showed that they were at the entrance of the village. 

But Maitre Pierre, deflecting a little from the 
road, which had now joined an open and public 
causeway, said to his companion, that the inn to 
which he intended to introduce him stood some- 
what secluded, and received only the better sort 
of travellers. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


37 


“ If you mean those who travel with the better- 
filled purses,” answered the Scot, “ I am none of 
the number, and will rather stand my chance of 
your flayers on the highway, than of your flayers 
in the hostelrie ! ” 

“ Pasques-dieu ! ” said his guide, “ how cautious 
your countrymen of Scotland are ! An Englishman, 
now, throws himself headlong into a tavern, eats 
and drinks of the best, and never thinks of the 
reckoning till his belly is full. But you forget, 
Master Quentin, since Quentin is your name, you 
forget I owe you a breakfast for the wetting which 
my mistake procured you — It is ‘the penance of my 
offence towards you. 

“ In truth,” said the light-hearted young man, 
“ I had forgot wetting, offence, and penance and all. 
I have walked my clothes dry, or nearly so, but I 
will not refuse your offer in kindness ; for my 
dinner yesterday was a light one, and supper I had 
none. You seem an old and respectable burgess, 
and I see no reason why I should not accept your 
courtesy.” 

The Frenchman smiled aside, for he saw plainly 
that the youth, while he was probably half famished, 
had yet some difficulty to reconcile himself to the 
thoughts of feeding at a stranger’s cost, and was 
endeavouring to subdue his inward pride by the 
reflection, that, in such slight obligations, the 
acceptor performed as complaisant a part as he by 
whom the courtesy was offered.” 

In the meanwhile they descended a narrow lane, 
overshadowed by tall elms, at the bottom of which 
a gateway admitted them into the court-yard of an 
inn of unusual magnitude, calculated for the accom- 
modation of the nobles and suitors who had business 


3 § 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


at the neighbouring Castle, where very seldom, and 
only when such hospitality was altogether unavoid- 
able, did Louis XI. permit any of his Court to have 
apartments. A scutcheon, bearing the fleur-de-lys } 
hung over the principal door of the large irregular 
building ; but there was about the yard and the 
offices little or none of the bustle which in those 
days, when attendants were maintained both in 
public and in private houses, marked that business 
was alive, and custom plenty. It seemed as if the 
stern and unsocial character of the royal mansion 
in the neighbourhood had communicated a portion 
of its solemn and terrific gloom even to a place 
designed, according to universal custom elsewhere, 
for the temple of social indulgence, merry society, 
and good cheer. 

Maitre Pierre, without calling any one, and 
even without approaching the principal entrance, 
lifted the latch of a side door, and led the way 
into a large room, where a fagot was blazing on 
the hearth, and arrangements made for a substantial 
breakfast. 

“ My gossip has been careful,” said the French- 
man to the Scot — “ You must be cold, and I have 
commanded a fire ; you must be hungry, and you 
shall have breakfast presently.” 

He whistled, and the landlord entered, — an- 
swered Maitre Pierre’s bon jour with a reverence, — 
but in no respect showed any part of the prating 
humour properly belonging to a French publican of 
all ages. 

“ I expected a gentleman,” said Maitre Pierre, “ to 
order breakfast — Hath he done so ? ” 

In answer, the landlord only bowed ; and while 
he continued to bring, and arrange upon the table, 


QUENTIN I) UR WARD. 


39 


the various articles of a comfortable meal, omitted 
to extol their merits by a single word. And yet 
the breakfast merited such eulogiums as French 
hosts are wont to confer upon their regales, as the 
reader will be informed in the next Chapter. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE DEJEUNER. 

Sacred heaven ! what masticators ! what bread ! 

Yoriclc’s Travels. 

We left our young stranger in France situated 
more comfortably than he had found himself since 
entering the territories of the ancient Gauls. The 
breakfast, as we hinted in the conclusion of the last 
Chapter, was admirable. There was a paM de Pe- 
rigord , over which a gastronome would have wished 
to live and die, like Homer’s lotus-eaters, forgetful 
of kin, native country, and all social obligations 
whatever. Its vast walls of magnificent crust 
seemed raised like the bulwarks of some rich metro- 
politan city, an emblem of the w.ealth which they 
are designed to protect. There was a delicate 
ragout, with just that jpetit point de Vail which Gas- 
cons love, and Scottishmen do not hate. There was, 
besides, a delicate ham, which had once supported 
a noble wild boar in the neighbouring wood of 
Mountrichart. There was the most exquisite white 
bread, made into little round loaves called bou/es, 
(whence the bakers took their French name of 
boidangers,) of which the crust was so inviting, 
that, even with water alone, it would have been a 
delicacy. But the water was not alone, for there 
was a flask of leather called bottrine , which con- 
tained about a quart of exquisite Vin de Beaulne 


QUENTIN DURWAHD. 


4i 


So many good things might have created appetite 
under the ribs of death. What effect, then, must 
they have produced upon a youngster of scarce 
twenty, who (for the truth must be told) had eaten 
little for the two last days, save the scarcely ripe 
fruit which chance afforded him an opportunity of 
plucking, and a very moderate portion of barley- 
bread ? He threw himself upon the ragout, and the 
plate was presently vacant — he attacked the mighty 
pasty, marched deep into the bowels of the land, 
and, seasoning his enormous meal with an occa- 
tional cup of wine, returned to the charge again and 
again, to the astonishment of mine host, and the 
amusement of Maitre Pierre. 

The latter, indeed, probably because he found 
himself the author of a kinder action than he had 
thought of, seemed delighted with the appetite of 
the young Scot ; and when, at length, he observed 
that his exertions began to languish, endeavoured 
to stimulate him to new efforts, by ordering con- 
fections, darioles, and any other light dainties he 
could think of, to entice the youth to continue his 
meal. While thus engaged, Maitre Pierre’s coun- 
tenance expressed a kind of good-humour almost 
amounting to benevolence, which appeared remote 
from its ordinary sharp, caustic, and severe charac- 
ter. The aged almost always sympathize with the 
enjoyments of youth, and with its exertions of every 
kind, when the mind of the spectator rests on its 
natural poise, and is not disturbed by inward envy 
or idle emulation. 

Quentin Durward also, while thus agreeably em- 
ployed, could do no otherwise than discover that 
the countenance of his entertainer, which he had at 
first found so unprepossessing, mended when it was 


42 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

seen under the influence of the Vin de Beaulne, 
and there was kindness in the tone with which he 
reproached Maitre Pierre, that he amused himself 
with laughing at his appetite, without eating any 
thing himself. 

“ I am doing penance,” said Maitre Pierre, “ and 
may not eat any thing before noon, save some com- 
fiture and a cup of water. — Bid yonder lady,” he 
added, turning to the innkeeper, “ bring them hither 
to me.” 

The innkeeper left the room, and Maitre Pierre 
proceeded, — “ Well, have I kept faith with you 
concerning the breakfast I promised you?” 

“The best meal I have eaten,” said the youth, 
“ since I left Glen-lioulakin.” 

“ Glen — what ? ” demanded Maitre Pierre ; “ are 
you going to raise the devil, that you use such long- 
tailed words ? ” 

“ Glen-houlakin,” answered Quentin, good-hu- 
mouredly, “ which is to say the Glen of the Midges, 
is the name of our ancient patrimony, my good sir. 
You have bought the right to laugh at the sound, 
if you please.” 

“ I have not the least intention to offend,” said 
the old man ; “ but I was about to say, since you 
like your present meal so well, that the Scottish 
Archers of the guard eat as good a one, or a better, 
every day.” 

“ No wonder,” said Durward, “ for if they be shut 
up in the swallows' nests all night, they must needs 
have a curious appetite in the morning.” 

“And plenty to gratify it upon,” said Maitre 
Pierre. “They need not, like the Burgundians, 
chouse a bare back, that they may have a full belly 
— they dress like counts, and feast like abbots.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


43 


“ It is well for them,” said Durward. 

“ And wherefore will you not take service here, 
young man ? Your uncle might, I dare say, have 
you placed on the file when there should a vacancy 
occur. And, hark in your ear, I myself have some 
little interest, and might be of some use to you. 
You can ride, I presume, as well as draw the 
how ? ” 

“ Our race are as good horsemen as ever put a 
plated shoe into a steel stirrup ; and I know not 
but I might accept of your kind offer. Yet, look 
you, food and raiment are needful things, but, in my 
case, men think of honour, and advancement, and 
brave deeds of arms. Your King Louis — God bless 
him, for he is a friend and ally of Scotland — but 
he lies here in this castle, or only rides about from 
one fortified town to another ; and gains cities and 
provinces by politic embassies, and not in fair fight- 
ing. Now, for me, I am of the Douglasses' mind, 
who always kept the fields, because they loved bet- 
ter to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak.” 

“Young man,” said Maitre Pierre, “do not judge 
too rashly of the actions of sovereigns. Louis seeks 
to spare the blood of his subjects, and cares not for 
his own. He showed himself a man of courage at 
Montl’hdry.” 

“ Ay, but that was some dozen years ago or more,” 
answered the youth. — “I should like to follow a 
master that would keep his honour as bright as his 
shield, and always venture foremost in the very 
throng of the battle.” 

“ Why did you not tarry at Brussels, then, with 
the Duke of Burgundy ? He would put you in the 
way to have your bones broken every day and, 
rather than fail, would do the job for you himself 


44 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

— especially if he heard that you had beaten his 
forester.” 

“ Very true,” said Quentin ; “ my unhappy chance 
has shut that door against me.” 

“Nay, there are plenty of dare-devils abroad, 
with whom mad youngsters may find service,” 
said his adviser. “What think you, for example, 
of William de la Marck ? ” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Durward, “ serve Him with 
the Beard — serve the wild Boar of Ardennes — a 
captain of pillagers and murderers, who would take 
a man’s life for the value of his gaberdine, and who 
slays priests and pilgrims as if they were so many 
lance-knights and men-at-arms ? It would be a blot 
on my father’s scutcheon for ever.” 

“ Well, my young hot-blood,” replied Maitre 
Pierre, “if you hold the So.nglier too unscrupu- 
lous, wherefore not follow the young Duke of 
Gueldres ? ” 1 

“Follow the foul fiend as soon,” said Quentin. 
“ Hark in your ear — he is a burden too heavy for 
earth to carry — hell gapes for him ! Men say that 
he keeps his own father imprisoned, and that he has 
even struck him — Can you believe it ? ” 

Maitre Pierre seemed somewhat disconcerted with 
the naive horror with which the young Scotsman 

1 This was Adolphus, son of Arnold and of Catherine de Bourbon. 
The present story has little to do with him, though one of the most 
atrocious characters of his time. He made war against his father ; 
in which unnatural strife he made the old man prisoner, and used 
him with the most brutal violence, proceeding, it is said, even to 
the length of striking him with his hand. Arnold, in resentment 
of this usage, disinherited the unprincipled wretch, and sold to 
Charles of .Burgundy whatever rights he had over the duchy of 
Gueldres and earldom of Zutphen. Mary of Burgundy, daughter 
of Charles, restored these possessions to the unnatural Adolphus, 
who was slain in 1477. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


45 


spoke of filial ingratitude, and he answered, “You 
know not, young man, how short a while the rela- 
tions of blood subsist amongst those of elevated 
rank ; ” then changed the tone of feeling in which 
he had begun to speak, and added, gaily, “ besides, 
if the Duke has beaten his father, I warrant you 
his father hath beaten him of old, so it is but 
a clearing of scores.” 

“ I marvel to hear you speak thus,” said the Scot, 
colouring with indignation ; “ grey hairs such as 
yours ought to have fitter subjects for jesting. If 
the old Duke did beat his son in childhood, he beat 
him not enough ; for better he had died under the 
rod, than have lived to make the Christian world 
ashamed that such a monster had ever been 
baptized.” 

“ At this rate,” said Maitre Pierre, “ as you weigh 
the characters of each prince and leader, I think 
you had better become a captain' yourself; for where 
will one so wise find a chieftain fit to command 
him ? ” 

“ You laugh at me, Maitre Pierre,” said the youth, 
good-humouredly, “ and perhaps you are right ; but 
you have not named a man who is a gallant leader, 
and keeps a brave party up here, under whom a man 
might seek service well enough.” 

“ I cannot guess whom you mean.” 

“ Why, he that hangs like Mahomet’s coffin ( a 
curse be upon Mahomet ! ) between the two load- 
stones — he that no man can call either French or 
Burgundian, but who knows to hold the balance 
between them both, and makes both of them fear 
and serve him, for as great princes as they be.” 

“ I cannot guess whom you mean,” said Maitre 
Pierre, thoughtfully. 


46 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ Why, whom should I mean hut the noble Louis 
de Luxembourg, Count of Saint Paul, the High 
Constable of France ? Yonder he makes his place 
good, with his gallant little army, holding his head 
as high as either King Louis or Duke Charles, and 
balancing between them, like the boy who stands 
on the midst of a plank, while two others are swing- 
ing on the opposite ends.” 1 

“ He is in danger of the worst fall of the three,” 
said Maitre Pierre. “And hark ye, my young 
friend, you who hold pillaging such a crime, do 
you know that your politic Count of Saint Paul 
was the first who set the example of burning the 
country during the time of war? and that before 
the shameful devastation which he committed, open 
towns and villages, which made no resistance, were 
spared on all sides ? ” 

“Nay, faith,” said Durward, “if that be the 
case, I shall begin to think no one of these great 
men is much better than another, and that a choice 
among them is but like choosing a tree to be hung 
upon. But this Count de Saint Paul, this Con- 
stable, hath possessed himself by clean conveyance 
of the town which takes its name from my honoured 
saint and patron, Saint Quentin,” 2 (here he crossed 

1 This part of Louis Xlth’s reign was much embarrassed by 
the intrigues of the Constable Saint Paul, who affected indepen- 
dence, and carried on intrigues with England, France, and Bur- 
gundy, at the same time. According to the usual fate of such 
variable politicians, the Constable ended by drawing upon him- 
self the animosity of all the powerful neighbours whom he had 
in their turn amused and deceived. He was delivered up by the 
Duke of Burgundy to the King of France, tried, and hastily 
executed for treason, a. d. 1475. 

2 It was by his possession of this town of Saint Quentin that 
the Constable was able to carry on those political intrigues, which 
finally cost him so dear. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


47 


himself,) “ and methinks, were I dwelling there, my 
holy patron would keep some look-out for me — he 
has not so many named after him as your more 
popular saints — and yet he must have forgotten 
me, poor Quentin Durward, his spiritual god-son, 
since he lets me go one day without food, and leaves 
me the next morning to the harbourage of Saint 
Julian, and the chance courtesy of a stranger, pur- 
chased by a ducking in the renowned river Cher, or 
one of its tributaries.” 

“ Blaspheme not the saints, my young friend,” 
said Maitre Pierre. “ Saint Julian is the faithful 
patron of travellers ; and, peradventure, the blessed 
Saint Quentin hath done more and better for thee 
than thou art aware of.” 

As he spoke, the door opened, and a girl, rather 
above than under fifteen years old, entered with a 
platter, covered with damask, on which was placed 
a small saucer of the dried plums which have al- 
ways added to the reputation of Tours, and a cup 
of the curiously chased plate which the goldsmiths 
of that city were anciently famous for executing 
with a delicacy of workmanship that distinguished 
them from the other cities of France, and even ex- 
celled the skill of the metropolis. The form of the 
goblet was so elegant, that Durward thought not 
of observing closely whether the material was of 
silver, or, like what had been placed before himself, 
of a baser metal, but so well burnished as to re- 
semble the richer ore. 

But the sight of the young person by whom this 
service was executed, attracted Dur ward’s attention 
far more than the petty minutiae of the duty which 
she performed. 

He speedily made the discovery, that a quantity 


48 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


of long black tresses, which, in the maiden fashion 
of his own country, were unadorned by any orna- 
ment, except a single chaplet lightly woven out of 
ivy leaves, formed a veil around a countenance, 
which, in its regular features, dark eyes, and pen- 
sive expression, resembled that of Melpomene, 
though there was a faint glow on the cheek, and 
an intelligence on the lips and in the eye, which 
made it seem that gaiety was not foreign to a coun- 
tenance so expressive, although it might not be its 
most habitual expression. Quentin even thought 
he could discern that depressing circumstances were 
the cause why a countenance so young and so lovely 
was graver than belongs to early beauty ; and as 
the romantic imagination of youth is rapid in draw- 
ing conclusions from slight premises, he was pleased 
to infer, from what follows, that the fate of this 
beautiful vision was wrapped in silence and mystery. 

“ How now, Jacqueline ! ” said Maitre Pierre, 
when she entered the apartment — “ Wherefore 
this ? Did I not desire that Dame Perette should 
bring what I wanted ? — Pasques-dieu ! — Is she, or 
does she think herself, too good to serve me ? ” 

“ My kinswoman is ill at ease,” answered Jac- 
queline, in a hurried yet a humble tone ; “ ill at 
ease, and keeps her chamber.” 

“ She keeps it alone , I hope ? ” replied Maitre 
Pierre, with some emphasis ; “ I am. vieux routier , 
and none of those upon whom feigned disorders 
pass for apologies.” 

Jacqueline turned pale, and even tottered at the 
answer of Maitre Pierre ; for it must be owned, 
that his voice and looks, at all times harsh, caustic, 
and unpleasing, had, when he expressed anger or 
suspicion, an effect both sinister and alarming. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


49 


The mountain chivalry of Quentin Durward was 
instantly awakened, and he hastened to approach 
Jacqueline, and relieve her of the burden she bore, 
and which she passively resigned to him, while with 
a timid and anxious look, she watched the counte- 
nance of the angry burgess. It was not in nature 
to resist the piercing and pity-craving expression 
of her looks, and Maitre Pierre proceeded, not 
merely with an air of diminished displeasure, but 
with as much gentleness as he could assume in 
countenance and manner, “I blame not thee, Jac- 
queline, and thou art too young to be — what it is 
pity to think thou must be one day — a false and 
treacherous thing, like the rest of thy giddy sex. 
No man ever lived to man’s estate, but he had the 
opportunity to know you all . 1 Here is a Scottish 
cavalier will tell you the same.” 

Jacqueline looked for an instant on the young 
stranger, as if to obey Maitre Pierre, but the glance, 
momentary as it was, appeared to Durward a pa- 
thetic appeal to him for support and sympathy ; and 
with the promptitude dictated by the feelings of 
youth, and the romantic veneration for the female 
sex inspired by his education, he answered hastily, 
“ That he would throw down his gage to any antag- 
onist, of equal rank and equal age, who should 
presume to say such a countenance, as that which 
lie now looked upon, could be animated by other 
than the purest and the truest mind.” 

The young woman grew deadly pale, and cast an 
apprehensive glance upon Maitre Pierre, in whom 
the bravado of the young gallant seemed only to 

1 It was a part of Louis’s very unamiable character, and not the 
best part of it, that he entertained a great contempt for the under- 
standing, and not less for the character, of the fair sex. 


50 


QUENTIN DURWARH. 


excite laughter, more scornful than applausive 
Quentin, whose second thoughts generally corrected 
the first, though sometimes after they had found 
utterance, blushed deeply at having uttered what 
might be construed into an empty boast, in presence 
of an old man of a peaceful profession ; and, as a 
sort of just and appropriate penance, resolved pa- 
tiently to submit to the ridicule which he had 
incurred. He offered the cup and trencher to Maitre 
Pierre with a blush in his cheek, and a humiliation 
of countenance, which endeavoured to disguise itself 
under an embarrassed smile. 

“ You are a foolish young man,” said Maitre 
Pierre, “ and know as little of women as of princes, 
— - whose hearts,” he said, crossing himself devoutly, 
“ God keeps in his right hand.” 

“ And who keeps those of the women, then ? ” 
said Quentin, resolved, if he could help it, not to 
be borne down by the assumed superiority of this 
extraordinary old man, whose lofty and careless 
manner possessed an influence over him of which 
he felt ashamed. 

“ I am afraid you must ask of them in another 
quarter,” said Maitre Pierre, composedly. 

Quentin was again rebuffed, but not utterly dis- 
concerted. “ Surely,” he said to himself, “ I do 
not pay this same burgess of Tours all the defer- 
ence which I yield him, on account of the miserable 
obligation of a breakfast, though it was a right good 
and substantial meal. Dogs and hawks are attached 
by feeding only — man must have kindness, if you 
would bind him with the cords of affection and 
obligation. But he is an extraordinary person ; and 
that beautiful emanation that is even now vanishing 
— surely a thing so fair belongs not to this mean 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Si 

place, belongs not even to the money-gathering 
merchant himself, though he seems to exert author- 
ity over her, as doubtless he does over all whom 
chance brings within his little circle. It is won- 
derful what ideas of consequence these Flemings 
and Frenchmen attach to wealth — so much more 
than wealth deserves, that I suppose this old mer- 
chant thinks the civility I pay to his age is given 
to his money — I, a Scottish gentleman of blood and 
coat-armour, and he a mechanic of Tours ! ” 

Such were the thoughts which hastily traversed 
the mind of young Durward ; while Maitre Pierre 
said, with a smile, and at the same time patting 
Jacqueline’s head, from which hung down her long 
tresses, “ This young man will serve me, Jacqueline 
— thou mayst withdraw. I will tell thy negligent 
kinswoman she does ill to expose thee to be gazed 
on unnecessarily.” 

“It was only to wait on you,” said the maiden. 
“ I trust you will not be displeased with my kins- 
woman, since ” 

“ Pasques-dieu ! ” said the merchant, interrupting 
her, but not harshly, “do you bandy words with me, 
you brat, or stay you to. gaze upon the youngster 
here ? — Begone — he is noble, and his services will 
suffice me.” 

Jacqueline vanished ; and so much was Quentin 
Durward interested in her sudden disappearance, 
that it broke his previous thread of reflection, and 
he complied mechanically, when Maitre Pierre said, 
in the tone of one accustomed to be obeyed, as he 
threw himself carelessly upon a large easy-chair, 
“ Place that tray beside me.” 

The merchant then let his dark eyebrows sink 
over his keen eyes, so that the last became scaive 


52 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


visible, or but shot forth occasionally a quick and 
vivid ray, like those of the sun setting behind a 
dark cloud, through which its beams are occasionally 
darted, but singly, and for an instant. 

“ That is a beautiful creature,” said the old man 
at last, raising his head, and looking steadily and 
firmly at Quentin, when he put the question — “a 
lovely girl to be the servant of an auberge ? — she 
might grace the board of an honest burgess ; but 
’tis a vile education, a base origin.” 

It sometimes happens that a chance shot will 
demolish a noble castle in the air, and the architect 
on such occasions entertains little good-will towards 
him who fires it, although the damage on the offen- 
der’s part may be wholly unintentional. Quentin 
was disconcerted, and was disposed to be angry 
— he himself knew not why — with this old man, 
for acquainting him that this beautiful creature was 
neither more nor less than what her occupation 
announced — the servant of the auberge . — an upper 
servant, indeed, and probably a niece of the land- 
lord, or such like ; but still a domestic, and obliged 
to comply with the humour of the customers, and 
particularly of Maitre Pierre, who probably had 
sufficiency of whims, and was rich enough to ensure 
their being attended to. 

The thought, the lingering thought, again re- 
turned on him, that he ought to make the old 
gentleman understand the difference betwixt their 
conditions, and call on him to mark, that, how rich 
soever he might be, his wealth put him on no level 
with a Durward of Glen-houlakin. Yet, whenever 
he looked on Maitre Pierre’s countenance with such 
a purpose, there was, notwithstanding the down- 
cast look, pinched features, and mean and miserly 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


53 


dress, something which prevented the young man 
from asserting the superiority over the merchant 
which he conceived himself to possess. On the con- 
trary, the oftener and more fixedly Quentin looked 
at him, the stronger became his curiosity to know 
who or what this man actually was ; and he set 
him down internally for at least a Syndic or high 
magistrate of Tours, or one who was, in some way or 
other, in the full habit of exacting and receiving 
deference. 

Meantime, the merchant seemed again sunk into 
a reverie, from which he raised himself only to make 
the sign of the cross devoutly, and to eat some of 
the dried fruit, with a morsel of biscuit He then 
signed to Quentin to give him the cup, adding, 
however, by way of question, as he presented it — 
“ You are noble, you say ?” 

“ I surely am,” replied the Scot, “ if fifteen 
descents can make me so — So I told you before. 
But do not constrain yourself on that account, 
Maitre Pierre — I have always been taught it is 
the duty of the young to assist the more aged.” 

“ An excellent maxim,” said the merchant, avail- 
ing himself of the youth’s assistance in handing the 
cup, and filling it from a ewer which seemed of the 
same materials with the goblet, without any of 
those scruples in point of propriety which, perhaps, 
Quentin had expected to excite. 

“ The devil take the ease and- familiarity of this 
old mechanical burgher,” said Durward once more 
to himself ; “ he uses the attendance of a noble 
Scottish gentleman with as little ceremony as I 
would that of a gillie from Glen-isla.” 

The merchant, in the meanwhile, having finished 
his cup of water, said to his companion, “ From the 


54 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


zeal with which you seemed to relish the Vin dt 
Beaulne , I fancy you would not care much to pledge 
me in this elemental liquor. But I have an elixir 
about me which can convert even the rock water 
into the richest wines of France.” 

As he spoke, he took a large purse from his 
bosom, made of the fur of the sea-otter, and streamed 
a shower of small silver pieces into the goblet, until 
the cup, which was but a small one, was more than 
half full. 

“ You have reason to be more thankful, young 
man,” said Maitre Pierre, “ both to your patron 
Saint Quentin, and to Saint Julian, than you seemed 
to be but now. I would advise you to bestow alms 
in their name. Remain in this hostelry until you 
see your kinsman, Le Balafrd, who will be relieved 
from guard in the afternoon. I will cause him to 
be acquainted that he may find you here, for I have 
business in the Castle.” 

Quentin Durward would have said something 
to have excused himself from accepting the profuse 
liberality of his new friend ; but Maitre Pierre, 
bending his dark brows, and erecting his stooping 
figure into an attitude of more dignity than he had 
yet seen him assume, said, in a tone of authority, 
“No reply, young man, but do what you are 
commanded.” 

With these words, he left the apartment, making 
a sign, as he departed, that Quentin must not follow 
him. 

The young Scotsman stood astounded, and knew 
not what to think of the matter. His first most 
natural, though perhaps not most dignified impulse, 
drove him to peep into the silver goblet, which 
assuredly was more than half full of silver pieces, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


55 


to the number of several scores, of which perhaps 
Quentin had never called twenty his own at one 
time during the course of his whole life. But could 
he reconcile it to his dignity as a gentleman, to 
accept the money of this wealthy plebeian ? — This 
was a trying question ; for though he had secured 
a good breakfast, it was no great reserve upon which 
to travel either back to Dijon, in case he chose to 
hazard the wrath, and enter the service, of the Duke 
of Burgundy, or to Saint Quentin, if he fixed on 
that of the Constable Saint Paul ; for to one of those 
powers, if not to the King of France, he was deter- 
mined to offer his services. He perhaps took the 
wisest resolution in the circumstances, in resolving 
to be guided by the advice of his uncle ; and, in 
the meantime, he put the money into his velvet 
hawking-pouch, and called for the landlord of the 
house, in order to restore the silver cup — resolving, 
at the same time, to ask him some questions about 
this liberal and authoritative merchant. 

The man of .the house appeared presently ; and, 
if not more communicative, was at least more loqua- 
cious, than he had been formerly. He positively 
declined to take back the silver cup. It was none 
of his, he said, but Maitre Pierre’s, who had 
bestowed it on his guest. He had, indeed, four 
silver hanaps of his own, which had been left him 
by his grandmother, of happy memory, but no more 
like the beautiful carving of that in his guest’s hand, 
than a peach was like a turnip, — that was one of 
the famous cups of Tours, wrought by Martin 
Dominique, an artist who might brag all Paris. 

“And, pray, who is this Maitre Pierre,” said 
Durward, interrupting him, “who confers such 
valuable gifts on strangers ? ” 


5<5 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


“ Who is Maitre Pierre ? ” said the host, dropping 
the words as slowly from his mouth as if he had 
been distilling them. 

“ Ay,” said Durward, hastily and peremptorily, 
“ who is this Maitre Pierre, and why does he throw 
about his bounties in this fashion ? And who is 
the butcherly-looking fellow whom he sent forward 
to order breakfast ? ” 

“Why, fair sir, as to who Maitre Pierre is, you 
should have asked the question of himself ; and 
for the gentleman who ordered breakfast to be 
made ready, may God keep us from his closer 
acquaintance ! ” 

“ There is something mysterious in all this,” said 
the young Scot. “ This Maitre Pierre tells me he 
is a merchant.” 

“And if he told you so,” said the innkeeper, 
“surely he is a merchant.” 

“What commodities does he deal in ? ” 

“ 0, many a fair matter of traffic,” said the host ; 
“and especially he has set up silk manufactories 
here, which match those rich bales that the Vene- 
tians bring from India and Cathay. You might 
see the rows of Mulberry trees as you came hither, 
all planted by Maitre Pierre’s commands, to feed 
the silk-worms.” 

“ And that young person who brought in the confec- 
tions, who is she, my good friend ?” said the guest. 

“ My lodger, sir, with her guardian, some sort 
of aunt or kinswoman, as I think,” replied the 
innkeeper. 

“ And do you usually employ your guests in 
waiting on each other ? ” said Durward ; “ for I 
observed that Maitre Pierre would take nothing 
from your hand, or that of your attendant.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


57 


“Rich men may have their fancies, for they can 
pay for them,” said the landlord ; “ this is not the 
first time that Maitre Pierre has found the true 
way to make gentlefolks serve at his beck.” 

The young Scotsman felt somewhat offended 
at the insinuation ; but, disguising his resentment, 
he asked whether he could be accommodated with 
an apartment at this place for a day, and perhaps 
longer. 

“ Certainly,” the innkeeper replied ; “ for what- 
ever time he was pleased to command it.” 

“ Could he be permitted,” he asked, “ to pay his 
respects to the ladies, whose fellow-lodger he was 
about to become ? ” 

The innkeeper was uncertain. “ They went not 
abroad,” he said, “ and received no one at home.” 

“ With the exception, I presume, of Maitre 
Pierre ? ” said Durward. 

“ I am not at liberty to name any exceptions,” 
answered the man, firmly, but respectfully. 

Quentin, who carried the notions of his own im- 
portance pretty high, considering how destitute he 
was of means to support them, being somewhat 
mortified by the innkeeper’s reply, did not hesitate 
to avail himself of a practice common enough in that 
age. “ Carry to the ladies,” he said, “ a flask of 
vernat , with my humble duty ; and- say, that Quentin 
Durward, of the house of Glen-houlakin, a Scottish 
cavalier of honour, and now their fellow-lodger, 
desires the permission to dedicate his homage to 
them in a personal interview.” 

The messenger departed, and returned, almost 
instantly, with the thanks of the ladies, who declined 
the proffered refreshment, and with their acknow- 
ledgments to the Scottish cavalier, regretted that, 


58 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

residing there in privacy, they could not receive his 
visit. 

Quentin hit his lip, took a cup of the rejected 
vernat , which the host had placed on the table. “ By 
the mass, but this is a strange country,” said he to 
himself, “ where merchants and mechanics exercise 
the manners and munificence of nobles, and little 
travelling damsels, who hold their court in a cabaret, 
keep their state like disguised princesses ! I will 
see that black-browed maiden again, or it will go 
hard, however;” and having formed this prudent 
resolution, he demanded to be conducted to the 
apartment which he was to call his own. 

The landlord presently ushered him up a turret 
staircase, and from thence along a gallery, with 
many doors opening from it, like those of cells in 
a convent ; a resemblance which our young hero, 
who recollected, with much ennui, an early speci- 
men of a monastic life, was far from admiring. The 
host paused at the very end of the gallery, selected 
a key from the large bunch which he carried at his 
girdle, opened the door, and showed his guest the 
interior of a turret-chamber, small, indeed, but 
which, being clean and solitary, and having the 
pallet bed, and the few articles of furniture, in 
unusually good order, seemed, on the whole, a little 
palace. 

“I hope you will find your dwelling agreeable 
here, fair sir,” said the landlord. — “I am bound to 
pleasure every friend of Maitre Pierre.” 

“ 0 happy ducking ! ” exclaimed Quentin Dur- 
ward, cutting a caper on the floor, so soon as his 
host had retired : “ Never came good luck in a 
better or a wetter form. I have been fairly deluged 
by my good fortune.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


59 


As he spoke thus, he stepped towards the little 
window, which, as the turret projected considerably 
from the principal line of the building, not only 
commanded a very pretty garden, of some extent, 
belonging to the inn, but overlooked, beyond its 
boundary, a pleasant grove of those very mulberry- 
trees, which Maitre Pierre was said to have planted 
for the support of the silk-worm. Besides, turning 
the eye from these more remote objects, and looking 
straight along the wall, the turret of Quentin was 
opposite to another turret, and the little window at 
which he stood commanded a similar little window, 
in a corresponding projection of the building. Now, 
it would be difficult for a man twenty years older 
than Quentin, to say why this locality interested 
him more than either the pleasant garden or the 
grove of mulberry-trees ; for, alas ! eyes which 
have been used for forty years and upwards, look 
with indifference on little turret-windows, though 
the lattice be half open to admit the air, while the 
shutter is half closed to exclude the sun, or perhaps 
a too curious eye — nay, even though there hang on 
the one side of the casement a lute, partly mantled 
by a light veil of sea-green silk. But, at Dur- 
ward’s happy age, such accidents , as a painter would 
call them, form sufficient foundation for a hundred 
airy visions and mysterious conjectures, at recol- 
lection of which the full-grown man smiles while 
he sighs, and sighs while he smiles. 

As it may be supposed that our friend Quentin 
wished to learn a little more of his fair neighbour, 
the owner of the lute and veil, — as it may be sup- 
posed he was at least interested to know whether 
she might not prove the same whom he had seen in 
humble attendance on Maitre Pierre, it must of 


6o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


course be understood, that he did not produce a 
broad staring visage and person in full front of his 
own casement. Durward knew better the art of 
bird-catching ; and it was to his keeping his person 
skilfully withdrawn on one side of his window, while 
he peeped through the lattice, that he owed the 
pleasure of seeing a white, round, beautiful arm, 
take down the instrument, and that his ears had 
presently after their share in the reward of his dex- 
terous management. 

The maid of the little turret, of the veil, and 
of the lute, sung exactly such an air as we are 
accustomed to suppose flowed from the lips of the 
high-born dames of chivalry, when knights and 
troubadours listened and languished. The words 
had neither so much sense, wit, or fancy, as to with- 
draw the attention from the music, nor the music 
so much of art, as to drown all feeling of the words. 
The one seemed fitted to the other ; and if the song 
had been recited without the notes, or the air played 
without the words, neither would have been worth 
noting. It is, therefore, scarcely fair to put upon 
record lines intended not to be said or read, but only 
to be sung. But such scraps of old poetry have 
always had a sort of fascination for us ; and as the 
tune is lost for ever — unless Bishop happens to find 
the notes, or some lark teaches Stephens to warble 
the air — we will risk our credit, and the taste of 
the Lady of the Lute, by preserving the verses, 
simple and even rude as they are. 

“ Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 

The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


61 


The lark, his lay who thrill’d all day. 

Sits hush’d his partner nigh ; 

Breeze, bird, and dower, confess the hour 
But where is County Guy ? 

“ The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd’s suit to hear ; 

To beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 

The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o’er earth and sky ; 

And high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy 1 ” 

Whatever the reader may think of this simple 
ditty, it had a powerful effect on Quentin, when 
married to heavenly airs, and sung by a sweet and 
melting voice, the notes mingling with the gentle 
breezes which wafted perfumes from the garden, 
and the figure of the songstress being so partially 
and obscurely visible, as threw a veil of mysterious 
fascination over the whole. 

At the close of the air, the listener could not help 
showing himself more boldly than he had yet done, 
in a rash attempt to see more than he had yet been 
able to discover. The music instantly ceased — the 
casement was closed, and a dark curtain, dropped on 
the inside, put a stop to all farther - observation on 
the part of the neighbour in the next turret. 

Durward was mortified and surprised at the con- 
sequence of his precipitance, but comforted himself 
with the hope, that the Lady of the Lute could 
neither easily forego the practice of an instrument 
which seemed so familiar to her, nor cruelly resolve 
to renounce the pleasures of fresh air and an open 
window, for the churlish purpose of preserving for 
her own exclusive ear the sweet sounds which she 


62 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


created. There came, perhaps, a little feeling of 
personal vanity to mingle with these consolatory 
reflections. If, as he shrewdly suspected, there was 
a beautiful dark-tressed damsel inhabitant of the one 
turret, he could not but be conscious that a hand- 
some, young, roving, bright-locked gallant, a cava- 
lier of fortune, was the tenant of the other; and 
romances, those prudent instructors, had taught his 
youth, that if damsels were shy, they were yet 
neither void of interest nor of curiosity in their 
neighbours’ affairs. 

Whilst Quentin was engaged in these sage reflec- 
tions, a sort of attendant or chamberlain of the inn 
informed him that a cavalier desired to speak with 
him below. 


CHAPTER Y. 


THE MAN-AT-ARMS. 

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 

Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth. 

As You Like It. 

The cavalier who awaited Quentin Durward’s 
descent into the apartment whei^he had breakfasted, 
was one of those of whom Louis XI. had long since 
said, that they held in their hands the fortune of 
France, as to the,m were intrusted the direct custody 
and protection of the royal person. 

Charles the Sixth had instituted this celebrated 
body, the Archers, as they were called, of the Scot- 
tish Body-guard, with better reason than can gen- 
erally be alleged for establishing round the throne 
a guard of foreign and mercenary troops. The 
divisions which tore from his side more than half of 
France, together with the wavering and uncertain 
faith of the nobility who yet acknowledged his cause, 
rendered it impolitic and unsafe to commit his per- 
sonal safety to their keeping. The Scottish nation 
was the hereditary enemy of the English, and the 
ancient, and, as it seemed, the natural allies of 
France. They were poor, courageous, «faithful — 
their ranks were sure to be supplied from the super- 
abundant population of their own country, than 
which none in Europe sent forth more or bolder 
adventurers. Their high claims of descent, too, 
gave them a good title to approach the person of a 


6 4 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


monarch more closely than other troops, while the 
comparative smallness of their numbers prevented 
the possibility of their mutinying, and becoming 
masters where they ought to be servants. 

On theiother hand, the French monarchs made 
it their policy to conciliate the affections of this 
select band of foreigners, by allowing them honor- 
ary.privileges and ample pay, which last most of 
them disposed of with military profusion in sup- 
porting their supposed rank. Each of them ranked 
as a gentleman in place and honour; and their 
near approach to the King’s person gave them dig- 
nity in their own Meyes, as well as importance in 
those of the nation of France. They were sump- 
tuously armed, equipped, and mounted ; and each 
was entitled to allowance for a squire, a valet, a 
page, and two yeomen, one of whom was termed 
coutelier , from the large knife which he wore to 
dispatch those whom in the melee his master had 
thrown to the ground. With these followers, and 
a corresponding equipage, an Archer of the Scot- 
tish Guard was a person of quality and importance ; 
and vacancies being generally filled up by those 
who had been trained in the service as pages or 
valets, the cadets of the best Scottish families were 
often sent to serve under some friend and relation 
in those capacities, until a chance of preferment 
should occur. 

The coutelier and his companion, not being noble 
or capable of this promotion, were recruited from 
persons of inferior quality ; but as their pay and 
appointments were excellent, their masters were 
easily able to select from among their wandering 
countrymen the strongest and most courageous to 
wait upon them in these capacities. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


65 


Ludovic Lesly, or, as we shall more frequently 
call him, Le Balafre, by which name he was gen- 
erally known in France, was upwards of six feet 
high, robust, strongly compacted in person, and 
hard-favoured in countenance, which latter attribute 
was much increased by a large and ghastly scar, 
which, beginning on his forehead, and narrowly 
missing his right eye, had laid bare the cheek-bone, 
and descended from thence almost to the tip of his 
ear, exhibiting a deep seam, which was sometimes 
scarlet, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, and 
sometimes approaching to black ; but always hide- 
ous, because at variance with the complexion of 
the face in whatever state it chanced to be, whether 
agitated or still, flushed with unusual passion, or 
in its ordinary state of weatherbeaten and sunburnt 
swarthiness. 

His dress and arms were splendid. He wore his 
national bonnet, crested with a tuft of feathers, and 
with a Virgin Mary of massive silver for a brooch. 
These brooches had been presented to < the Scottish 
Guard, in consequence of the King, in one of his 
fits of superstitious piety, having devoted the swords 
of his guard to the service of the Holy Virgin, and, 
as some say, carried the matter so far as to draw 
out a commission to Our Lady as their Captain Gen- 
eral. The Archer’s gorget, arm-pieces, and gaunt- 
lets, were of the finest steel, curiously inlaid with 
silver, and his hauberk, or shirt of mail, was as clear 
and bright as the frostwork of a winter morning 
upon fern or brier. He wore a loose surcoat, or 
cassock, of rich blue velvet, open at the sides like 
that of a herald, with a large white St. Andrew’s 
cross of embroidered silver bisecting it both before 
and behind — his knees and legs were protected by 


66 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


hose of mail and shoes of steel — a broad strong 
poniard (called the Mercy of God) hung by his 
right side — the baldric for his two-handed sword, 
richly embroidered, hung upon his left shoulder; 
but, for convenience, he at presen^ carried in his 
hand that unwieldy weapon, whicl/ the rules of his 
Service forbade him to lay aside. 

Quentin Durward, though, like the Scottish youth 
of the period, he had been early taught to look 
upon arms and war, thought he had never seen a 
more martial-looking, or more completely equipped 
and accomplished man-at-arms, than now saluted 
him in the person of his mother’s brother, called 
Ludovic with the Scar, or Le Balafr4 ; yet he could 
not but shrink a little from the grim expression of 
his countenance, while, with its rough mustaches, 
he brushed first the one and then the other cheek 
of his kinsman, welcomed his nephew to France, 
and, in the same breath, asked what news from 
Scotland. 

“ Little good tidings, dear uncle,” replied young 
Durward ; “ but I am glad that you know me so 
readily.” 

“ I would have known thee, boy, in the landes of 
Bourdeaux, had I met thee marching there like a 
crane on a pair of stilts. 1 But sit thee down — sit 
thee down — if there is sorrow to hear of, we will 
have wine to make us bear it. — Ho ! old Pinch- 
Measure, our good host, bring us of thy best, and 
that in an instant.” 

The well-known sound of the Scottish-French 
was as familiar in the taverns near Plessis, as that 

1 The crutches or stilts, which in Scotland are used to pass 
rivers. They are employed by the peasantry of the country neat 
Bourdeaux, to traverse those deserts of loose sand called Landes. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


67 


of the Swiss-French in the modern gilinguettes of 
Paris ; and promptly — ay, with the promptitude 
of fear and precipitation, was it heard and obeyed. - 
A flagon of champagne stood before them, of which 
the elder took a draught, while the nephew helped 
himself only to a moderate sip, to acknowledge his 
uncle’s courtesy, saying, in excuse, that he had 
already drunk wine that morning. 

“ That had been a rare good apology in the mouth 
of thy sister, fair nephew,” said Le Balafrd ; “ you 
must fear the wine-pot less, if you would wear 
beard on your face, and write yourself soldier. But 
come — come — unbuckle your Scottish mail-bag — 
give us the news of Glen-houlakin — How doth my 
sister ? ” 

“ Dead, fair uncle,” answered Quentin, sorrowfully. 

“ Dead ! ” echoed his uncle with a tone rather 
marked by wonder than sympathy — “ why, she was 
five years younger than I, and I was never better 
in my life. Dead ! the thing is impossible. I have 
never had so much as a headache, unless after revel- 
ling out my two or three days’ furlough with the 
brethren of the joyous science — and my poor sister 
is dead ! — And your father, fair nephew, hath he 
married again ? ” 

And ere the youth could reply, he read the 
answer in his surprise at the question, and said, 
“ What ! no ? — I would have sworn that Allan 
Durward was no man to live without a wife. He 
loved to have his house in order — loved to look on 
a pretty woman too ; and was somewhat strict in 
life withal — matrimony did all this for him. Now, I 
care little about these comforts ; and I can look on 
a pretty woman without thinking on the sacrament 
of wedlock — I am scarce holy enough for that.” 


68 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“Alas! dear uncle, my mother was left a widow 
a ye*fr since, when Glen-houlakin was harried by the 
/Ogilvies. My father, and my two uncles, and my 
two elder brothers, and seven of my kinsmen, and 
the harper, and the tasker, and some six more of 
our people, were killed in defending the castle ; and 
there is not a burning hearth or a standing stone in 
all Glen-houlakin.” 

“ Cross of Saint Andrew ! ” said Le Balafrt* ; 
“ that is what I call an onslaught ! Ay, these 
Ogilvies were ever but sorry neighbours to Glen- 
houlakin — an evil chance it was ; but fate of war 
— fate of war. — When did this mishap befall, fair 
nephew ? ” With that he took a deep draught of 
wine, and shook his head with much solemnity, 
when his kinsman replied, that his family had been 
destroyed upon the festival of Saint Jude last 
bypast. 

“ Look ye there,” said the soldier ; “ I said it 
was all chance — on that very day I and twenty of 
my comrades carried the Castle of Roche-noir by 
storm, from Amaury Bras-de-fer, a captain of free 
lances, whom you must have heard of. I killed him 
on his own threshold, and gained as much gold as 
made this fair chain, which was once twice as long 
as it now is — and that minds me to send part of it 
on an holy errand. — Here, Andrew — Andrew ! ” 

Andrew, his yeoman, entered, dressed like the 
Archer himself in the general equipment, but with- 
out the armour for the limbs, — that of the body 
more coarsely manufactured — his cap without a 
plume, and his cassock made of serge, or ordinary 
cloth, instead of rich velvet. . Untwining his gold 
chain from his neck, Balafrd twisted off, with his 
firm and strong-set teeth, about four inches from the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


69 


one end of it, and said to his attendant, “Here, 
Andrew, carry this to my gossip, Jolly Father 
Boniface, the monk of Saint Martin’s — greet him 
well from me, by the same token that he could not 
say God save ye when we last parted at midnight — 
Tell my gossip that my brother and sister, and some 
others of my house, are all dead and gone, and I 
pray him to say masses for their souls as far as the 
value of these links will carry him, and to do on 
trust what else may be necessary to free them from 
Purgatory. And hark ye, as they were just-living 
people, and free from all heresy, it may be that they 
are wellnigh out of limbo already, so that a little 
matter may have them free of the fetlocks ; and in 
that case, look ye, ye will say I desire to take out 
the balance of the gold in curses upon a generation 
called the Ogilvies of Angus-shire, in what way 
soever the church may best come at them. You 
understand all this, Andrew ? ” 

The coutelier nodded. 

“ Then look that none of the lin^s find their way 
to the wine-house ere the Monk touches them ; for 
if it so chance, thou shalt taste of saddle-girth and 
stirrup-leather, till thou art as raw as Saint Bartho- 
lomew. — Yet hold, I see thy eye has fixed on the 
wine measure, and thou shalt not go without 
tasting.” 

So saying, he filled him a brimful cup, which the 
coutelier drank oft', and retired to do his patron’s 
commission. 

“ And now, fair nephew, let us hear what was 
your own fortune in this unhappy matter.” 

“ I fought it out among those who were older and 
stouter than I was, till we were all brought down,” 
said Durward, “and I received a cruel wound.” 


7o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


‘‘Not a worse slash than I received ten years 
since myself,” said Le BalafrA — “ Look at this now, 
my fair nephew,” tracing the dark crimson gash 
which was imprinted on his face — “ An Ogilvie’s 
sword never ploughed so deep a furrow.” 

“ They ploughed deep enough,” answered Quentin 
sadly; “but they were tired at last, and my 
mother’s entreaties procured mercy for me, when 
I was found to retain some spark of life ; but al- 
though a learned monk of Aberbrothick, who chanced 
to be our guest at the fatal time, and narrowly 
escaped being killed in the fray, was permitted to 
bind my wounds, and finally to remove me to a place 
of safety, it was only on promise, given both by my 
mother and him, that I should become a monk.” 

“ A monk ! ” exclaimed the uncle — “ Holy Saint 
Andrew ! that is what never befell me. No one, from 
my childhood upwards, ever so much as dreamed 
of making me a monk — And yet I wonder when 
I think of it ; for you will allow that, bating the 
reading and writing, which I could never learn, and 
the psalmody, which I could never endure, and the 
dress, which is that of a mad beggar — Our Lady 
forgive me ! — [here he crossed himself] — and their 
fasts, which do not suit my appetite, I would have 
made every whit as good a monk as my little 
gossip at Saint Martin’s yonder. But I know not 
why, none ever proposed the station to me. — 0 so, 
fair nephew, you were to be a monk, then — and 
wherefore, I pray you ?” 

“ That my father’s house might be ended, either 
in the cloister or in the tomb,” answered Quentin, 
with deep feeling. 

“ I see,” answered his uncle — “ I comprehend. 
Cunning rogues — very cunning ! — They might have 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


7 1 


been cheated, though ;< for, look ye, fair nephew, I 
myself remember the canon Robersart who had 
taken the vows, and afterwards broke out of cloister, 
and became a captain of Free Companions. He 
had a mistress, the prettiest wench I ever saw, and 
three as beautiful children — There is no trusting 
monks, fair nephew, — no trusting them — they 
may become soldiers and fathers when you least 
expect it — but on with your tale.” 

“ I have little more to tell,” said Durward, 
“ except that, considering my poor mother to be in 
some degree a pledge for me, I was induced to take 
upon me the dress of a novice, and conformed to 
the cloister rules, and even learned to read and 
write.” 

“ To read and write ! ” exclaimed Le Balafr^, 
who was one of that sort of people who think all 
knowledge is miraculous which chances to exceed 
their own — “ To write, say’st thou, and to read ! 
I cannot believe it — never Durward could write his 
name that ever I heard of, nor Lesly either. I can 
answer for one of them — I can no more write than 
I can fly. Now, in Saint Louis’s name, how did 
they teach it you ? ” 

“ It was troublesome at first,” said Durward, 
“ but became more easy by use ; and I was weak 
with my wounds and loss of blood, and desirous to 
gratify my preserver, Father Peter, and so I was 
the more easily kept to my task. But after several 
months’ languishing, my good kind mother died, 
and as my health was now fully restored, I com- 
municated to my benefactor, who was also Sub- 
Prior of the Convent, my reluctance to take the 
vows ; and it was agreed between us, since my voca- 
tion lay not to the cloister, that I should be sent 


72 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


out into the world to seek my fortune, and that, to 
save the Sub-Prior from the anger of the Ogilvies, 
my departure should have the appearance of flight ; 
and to colour it, I brought off the Abbot’s hawk 
with me. But I was regularly dismissed, as will 
appear from the hand and seal of the Abbot 
himself.” 

“That is right — that is well,” said his uncle. 
“ Our King cares little what other theft thou mayst 
have made, but hath a horror at any thing like a 
breach of the cloister. And, I warrant thee, thou 
hadst no great treasure* to bear thy charges ? ” 

“Only a few pieces of silver,” said the youth; 
“ for to you, fair uncle, I must make a free 
confession.” 

“Alas ! ” replied Le Balafrd, “ that is hard. Now, 
though I am never a hoarder of my pay, because it 
doth ill to bear a charge about one in these perilous 
times, yet I always have (and I would advise you 
to follow my example) some odd gold chain, or 
bracelet, or carcanet, that serves for the ornament 
of my person, and can at need spare a superfluous 
link or two, or it may be a superfluous stone for 
sale, that can answer any immediate purpose. — But 
you may ask, fair kinsman, how you are to come 
by such toys as this ? ” — (he shook his chain with 
complacent triumph) — “ They hang not on every 
bush — they grow not in the fields like the daffodils, 
with whose stalks children make knights’ collars. 
What then ? — you may get such where I got this, 
in the service of the good King of France, where 
there is always wealth to be found, if a man has 
but the heart to seek it, at the risk of a little life 
or so.” 

“ I understood,” said Quentin, evading a deck 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


73 


sion to which he felt himself as yet scarcely com- 
petent, “that the Duke of Burgundy keeps a more 
noble state than the King of France, and that there 
is more honour to be won under his banners — that 
good blows are struck there, and deeds of arms 
done ; while the Most Christian King, they say, 
gains his victories by his ambassadors’ tongues.” 

“You speak like a foolish boy, fair nephew,” 
answered he with the Scar ; “ and yet, I bethink 
me, when I came hither I was nearly as simple : I 
could never think of a King but what I supposed 
him either sitting under the high deas, and feasting 
amid his high vassals and Paladins, eating blanc- 
manger , with a great gold crown upon his head, or 
else charging at the head of his troops like Char- 
lemagne in the romaunts, or like Robert Bruce or 
William Wallace in our own true histories, such 
as Barbour and the Minstrel. Hark in thine ear, 
man — it is all moonshine in the water. Policy — 
policy does it all. But what is policy, you will 
say ? It is an art this French King of ours has 
found out, to fight with other men’s swords, and to 
wage his soldiers out of other men’s purses. Ah ! 
it is the wisest Prince that ever put purple on his 
back — and yet he weareth not much of that neither 
— I see him often go plainer than I would think 
befitted me to do.” 

“But you meet not my exception, fair uncle,” 
answered young Durward ; “ I would serve, since 
serve I must in a foreign land, somewhere where a 
brave deed, were it my hap to do one, might work 
me a name.” 

“ I understand you, my fair nephew,” said the 
royal man-at-arms, “ I understand you passing well ; 
but you are unripe in these matters. The Duke of 


74 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 

Burgundy is a hot-brained, impetuous, pudding- 
headed, iron-ribbed dare-all. He charges at the head 
of his nobles and native knights, his liegemen of 
Artois and Hainault ; think you, if you were there, 
or if I were there myself, that we could be much 
farther forward than the Duke and all his brave 
nobles' of his own land? If we were not up with 
them, we had a chance to be turned on the Provost- 
Marshal’s hands, for being slow in making to ; if we 
were abreast of them, all would be called well, and 
we might be thought to have deserved our pay ; 
and grant that I was a spear’s-length or so in the 
rront, which is both difficult and dangerous in such 
a melee where all do their best, why, my lord duke 
says, in his Flemish tongue, when he sees a good 
blow struck, ‘ Ha ! gut getroffen ! a good lance — a 
brave Scot — give him a florin to drink our health ; ’ 
but neither rank, nor lands, nor treasures, come to 
the stranger in such a service — all goes to the 
children of the soil.” 

“ And where should it go, in Heaven’s name, 
fair uncle ? ” demanded young Durward. 

“ To him that protects the children of the soil,” 
said Balafre, drawing up his gigantic height. “ Thus 
says King Louis: — ‘My good French peasant — • 
mine honest Jacques Bonhomme — get you to your 
tools, your plough and your harrow, your pruning- 
knife and your hoe — here is my gallant Scot that 
will fight for you, and you shall only have the 
trouble to pay him — And you, my most serene 
duke, my illustrious count, and my most mighty 
marquis, e’en rein up your fiery courage till it is 
wanted, for it is apt to start out of the course, and 
to hurt its master ; here are my companies of ordo- 
nance — here are my French Guards — here are 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


75 


above all, my Scottish Archers, and mine honest 
Ludovic with the Scar, who will fight, as well or 
better than you, with all that undisciplined valour, 
which, in your father’s time, lost Cressy and Azin- 
cour.’ Now, see you not in which of these states a 
cavalier of fortune holds the highest rank, and must 
come to the highest honour ? ” 

“ I think I understand you, fair uncle,” answered 
the nephew ; “ but, in my mind, honour cannot be 
won where there is no risk. Sure, this is — I pray 
you pardon me — an easy and almost slothful life, 
to mount guard round an elderly man whom no one 
thinks of harming, to spend summer-day and winter- 
night up in yonder battlements, and shut up all the 
while in iron cages, for fear you should desert your 
posts — uncle, uncle, it is but the hawk upon his 
perch, who is never carried out to the fields ! ” 
“Now, by Saint Martin of Tours, the boy has 
some spirit ! a right touch of the Lesly in him ; 
much like myself, though always with a little more 
folly in it. Hark ye, youth — Long live the King 
of France! — scarce a day but there is some com- 
mission in hand, by which some of his followers 
may win both coin and credit. Think not that the 
bravest and most dangerous deeds are done by day- 
light. I could tell you of some, as scaling castles, 
making prisoners, and the like, where one who shall 
be nameless hath run higher risk, and gained greater 
favour, than any desperado in the train of desperate 
Charles of Burgundy. And if it please his Majesty 
to remain behind, and in the background, while 
such things are doing, he hath the more leisure of 
spirit to admire, and the more liberality of hand 
to reward the adventurers, whose dangers, perhaps, 
and whose feats of arms, he can better judge of than 


76 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


if he had personally shared them. O, ’tis a sagacious 
and most politic monarch ! ” 

His nephew paused, and then said, in a low but 
impressive tone of voice, “ The good Father Peter 
used often to teach me there might be much danger 
in deeds by* which little glory was acquired. I need 
not say to you, fair uncle, that I do in course sup- 
pose that these secret commissions must needs be 
honourable.” 

“For whom or for what take you me, fair 
nephew ? ” said Balafrd, somewhat sternly ; “ I have 
not been trained, indeed, in the cloister, neither can 
I write nor read. But I am your mother’s brother ; 
I am a loyal Lesly. Think you that I am like to 
recommend to you any thing unworthy ? The best 
knight in France, Du Guesclin himself, if he were 
alive again, might be proud to number my deeds 
among his achievements.” 

“ I cannot doubt your warranty, fair uncle,” said 
the youth ; “ you are the only adviser my mishap 
has left me. But is it true, as fame says, that this 
King keeps a meagre Court here at his Castle of 
Plessis ? No repair of nobles or courtiers, none of 
his grand feudatories in attendance, none of the high 
officers of the crown ; half solitary, sports, shared 
only with the menials of his household ; secret 
councils, to which only low and obscure men are 
invited ; rank and nobility depressed, and men raised 
from the lowest origin to the kingly favour — all 
this seems unregulated, resembles not the manners 
of his father, the noble Charles, who tore from the 
fangs of the English lion this more than half 
conquered kingdom of France.” 

“ You speak like a giddy child,” said Le Balafr^ ; 
" and even as a child, you harp over the same 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


77 


notes on a new string. Look you : if the King 
employs Oliver Dain, (&) his barber, to do what 
Oliver can do better than any peer of them all, is 
not the kingdom the gainer? If he bids his stout 
Provost-Marshal, Tristan, arrest such or such a 
seditious burgher, take off such or such a turbulent 
noble, the deed is done and no more of it ; when, were 
the commission given to a duke or peer of France, 
he might perchance send the King back a defiance 
in exchange. If, again, the King pleases to give to 
plain Ludovic le Balafrd a commission which he will 
execute, instead of employing the High Constable, 
who would perhaps betray it, doth it not show 
wisdom ? Above all, doth not a monarch of such 
conditions best suit cavaliers of fortune, who must 
go where their services are most highly prized, and 
most frequently in demand ? — No, no, child, I tell 
thee Louis knows how to choose his confidants, and 
what to charge them with ; suiting, as they say, 
the burden to each man’s back. He is not like the 
King of Castile, who choked of thirst, because the 
great butler was not beside to hand his cup. — But 
hark to the bell of Saint Martin’s 3 I must hasten 
back to the Castle. — Farewell — make much of 
yourself, and at eight to-morrow morning present 
yourself before the drawbridge, and ask the sentinel 
for me. Take heed you step not off the straight 
and beaten path in approaching the portal ! There 
are such traps and snap-haunches as may cost you 
a limb, which you will sorely miss. You shall see 
the King, and learn to judge him for yourself — 
farewell.” 

So saying, Balafrd hastily departed, forgetting, 
in his hurry, to pay for the wine he had called for, 
a shortness of memory incidental to persons of his 


78 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


description, and which his host, overawed, perhaps, 
by the nodding bonnet and ponderous two-handed 
sword, did not presume to use any efforts for 
correcting. 

It might have been expected that, when left alone, 
Durward would have again betaken himself to his 
turret, in order to watch for the repetition of those 
delicious sounds which had soothed his morning 
reverie. But that was a chapter of romance, and his 
uncle’s conversation had opened to him a page of 
the real history of life. It was no pleasing one, and 
for the present the recollections and reflections 
which it excited, were qualified to overpower other 
thoughts, and especially all of a light and soothing 
nature. 

Quentin resorted to a solitary walk along the 
banks of the rapid Cher, having previously enquired 
of his landlord for one which he might traverse 
without fear of disagreeable interruption from snares 
and pitfalls, and there endeavoured to compose his 
turmoiled and scattered thoughts, and consider 
his future motions, upon which his meeting with 
his uncle had thrown some dubiety. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE BOHEMIANS. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he, 

He play’d a spring and danced a round 
Beneath the gallows-tree ! 

Old Song 


The manner in which Quentin Durward had been 
educated, was not of a kind to soften the heart, or 
perhaps to improve the moral feeling. He, with 
the rest of his family, had been trained to the chase 
as an amusement, and taught to consider war as 
their only serious occupation, and that it was the 
great duty of their lives stubbornly to endure, and 
fiercely to retaliate, the attacks of their feudal ene- 
mies, by whom their race had been at last almost 
annihilated. And yet there mixed with these feuds 
a spirit of rude chivalry, and even courtesy, which 
softened their rigour ; so that revenge, their only 
justice, was still prosecuted with some regard to 
humanity and generosity. The lessons of the worthy 
old monk, better attended to, perhaps, during a long 
illness and adversity, than they might have been in 
health and success, had given young Durward still 
farther insight into the duties of humanity towards 
others; and, considering the ignorance of the period, 
the general prejudices entertained in favour of a 
military life, and the manner in which he himself 
had been bred, the youth was disposed to feel more 


8o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


accurately the moral duties incumbent on his station 
than was usual at the time. 

He reflected on his interview with his uncle with 
a sense of embarrassment and disappointment. His 
hopes had been high; for although intercourse by 
letters was out of the question, yet a pilgrim, or an 
adventurous trafficker, or a crippled soldier, some- 
times brought Lesly’s name to Glen-houlakin, and 
all united in praising his undaunted courage, and 
his success in many petty enterprises which his 
master had intrusted to him. Quentin’s imagina- 
tion had filled up the sketch in his own way, and 
assimilated his successful and adventurous uncle 
(whose exploits probably lost nothing in the tell- 
ing) to some of the champions and knights-errant of 
whom minstrels sang, and who won crowns and 
kings’ daughters by dint of sword and lance. He 
was- now compelled to rank his kinsman greatly 
lower in the scale of chivalry ; but blinded by the 
high respect paid to parents, and those who ap- 
proach that character — moved by every early pre- 
judice in his favour — inexperienced besides, and 
passionately attached to his mother’s memory, he 
saw not, in the only brother of that dear relation, 
the character he truly held, which was that of an 
ordinary mercenary soldier, neither much worse nor 
greatly better than many of the same profession 
whose presence added to the distracted state of 
France. 

Without being wantonly cruel, Le Balafr^ was, 
from habit, indifferent to human life and human 
suffering; he was profoundly ignorant, greedy of 
booty, unscrupulous how he acquired it, and pro- 
fuse in expending it on the gratification of his pas- 
sions. The habit of attending exclusively to his 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


81 


own wants and interests, had converted him into 
one of the most selfish animals in the world ; so 
that he was seldom able, as the reader may have 
remarked, to proceed far in any subject without 
considering how it applied to himself, or, as it is 
called, making the case his own, though not upon 
feelings connected with the golden rule, but such as 
were very different. To this must be added, that 
the narrow round of his duties and his pleasures 
had gradually circumscribed his thoughts, hopes, 
and wishes, and quenched in a great measure the 
wild spirit of honour, and desire of distinction in 
arms, by which his youth had been once animated. 
Balafrd was, in short, a keen soldier, hardened, 
selfish, and narrow-minded ; active and bold in the 
discharge of his duty, but acknowledging few ob- 
jects beyond it, except the formal observance of a 
careless devotion, relieved by an occasional debauch 
with brother Boniface, his comrade and confessor. 
Had his genius been of a more extended character 
he would probably have been promoted to some 
important command, for the King, who knew every 
soldier of his body-guard personally, reposed much 
confidence in Balafr^’s courage and fidelity ; and, 
besides, the Scot had either wisdom or cunning 
enough perfectly to understand, and ably to humour, 
the peculiarities of that sovereign. Still, however, 
his capacity was too much limited to admit of his 
rising to higher rank, and though smiled on and 
favoured by Louis on many occasions, Balafrd con- 
tinued a mere Life-guards-man, or Scottish Archer. 

Without seeing the full scope of his uncle’s char- 
acter, Quentin felt shocked at his indifference to 
the disastrous extirpation of his brother in-law’s 
whole family, and could not help being surprised, 


82 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

moreover, that so near a relative had not offered 
him the assistance of his purse, which, but for the 
generosity of Maitre Pierre, he would have been 
under the necessity of directly craving from him. 
He wronged his uncle, however, in supposing that 
this want of attention to his probable necessities 
was owing to avarice. Not precisely needing money 
himself at that moment, it had not occurred to 
Balafre that his nephew might be in exigencies , 
otherwise, he held a near kinsman so much a part of 
himself, that he would have provided for the weal 
of the living nephew, as he endeavoured to do for 
that of his deceased sister and her husband. But 
whatever was the motive, the neglect was very un- 
satisfactory to young Durward, and he wished more 
than once he had taken service with the Duke of 
Burgundy ^before he quarrelled with his forester. 
“ Whatever had then become of me,” he thought 
to himself, “ I should always have been able to keep 
up my spirits with the reflection, that I had, in case 
of the worst, a stout back-friend in this uncle of 
mine. But now I have seen him, and, woe worth 
him, there has been more help in a mere mechanical 
stranger, than I have found in my own mother’s 
brother, my countryman and a cavalier ! One wmuld 
think the slash, that has carved all comeliness out 
of his face, had let at the same time every drop of 
gentle blood out of his body.” 

Durward now regretted he had not had an oppor- 
tunity to mention Maitre Pierre to Le Balafre, in 
the hope of obtaining some farther account of 
that personage ; but his uncle’s questions had fol- 
lowed f&st on each other, and the summons of the 
great bell of Saint Martin of Tours had broken off 
their conference rather suddenly. That old man, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


83 


he thought to himself, was crabbed and dogged in 
appearance, sharp and scornful in language, but 
generous and liberal in his actions ; and such a 
stranger is worth a cold kinsman — “What says 
our old Scottish proverb ? — ‘ Better kind fremit, 
than fremit kindred. ’ 1 I will find out that man, 
which, methinks, should be no difficult task, since 
he is so wealthy as mine host bespeaks him. He 
will give me good advice for my governance, at 
least ; and if he goes to strange countries, as many 
such do, I know not but his may be as adventurous 
a service as that of those Guards of Louis.” 

As Quentin framed this thought, a whisper from 
those recesses of the heart in which lies much that 
the owner does not know of, or will not acknow- 
ledge willingly, suggested that, perchance, the lady 
of the turret, she of the veil and lute, might share 
that adventurous journey. 

As the Scottish youth made these reflections, he 
met two grave-looking men, apparently citizens of 
Tours, whom, doffing his cap with the reverence 
due from youth to age, he respectfully asked to 
direct him to the house of Maitre Pierre. 

“ The house of whom, my fair son ? ” said one of 
the passengers. 

“ Of Maitre Pierre, the great silk merchant, who 
planted all the mulberry trees in the park yonder,” 
said Durward. 

“ Young man,” said one of them who was near- 
est to him, “you have taken up an idle trade a 
little too early.” 

1 Better kind strangers than estranged kindred. The motto is 
engraved on a dirk, belonging to a person who had but too much 
reason to choose sueb a device. It was left by him to my father, 
and is connected with a strange course of adventures, which may 
one day be told. The weapon is now in my possession. 


8 4 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ And have chosen wrong subjects to practise 
your fooleries upon,” said the farther one, still more 
gruffly. “The Syndic of Tours is not accustomed 
to be thus talked to by strolling jesters from foreign 
parts.” 

Quentin was so much surprised at the causeless 
offence which these two decent-looking persons had 
taken at a very simple and civil question, that he 
forgot to be angry at the rudeness of their reply, 
and stood staring after them as they walked on 
with amended pace, often looking back at him, as 
if they were desirous to get as soon as possible out 
of his reach. 

He next met a party of vine-dressers, and ad- 
dressed to them the same question ; and, in reply, 
they demanded to know whether he wanted Maitre 
Pierre, the schoolmaster ? or Maitre Pierre, the 
carpenter ? or Maitre Pierre, the beadle ? or half-a- 
dozen of Maitre Pierres besides. When none of 
these corresponded with the description of the per- 
son after whom he enquired, the peasants accused 
him of jesting with them impertinently, and threat- 
ened to fall upon him and beat him, in guerdon of 
his raillery. The oldest amongst them, who had 
some influence over the rest, prevailed on them to 
desist from violence. 

“ You see by his speech and his fool’s cap,” said 
he, “ that he is one of the foreign mountebanks who 
are come into the country, and whom some call 
magicians and soothsayers, and some jugglers, and 
the like, and there is no knowing what tricks they 
have amongst them. I have heard of such a one 
paying a liard to eat his bellyful of grapes in a poor 
man’s vineyard ; and he ate as many as would have 
loaded a wain, and never undid a button of his 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


85 


jerkin — and so let him pass quietly, and keep his 
way, as we will keep ours. — And you, friend, if you 
would shun worse, walk quietly 'on, in the name of 
God, our Lady of Marmoutier, and Saint Martin of 
Tours, and trouble us no more about your Maitre 
Pierre, which may be another name for the devil, 
for aught we know.” 

The Scot, finding himself much the weaker party, 
judged it his wisest course to walk on without 
reply ; but the peasants, who at first shrunk from 
him in horror, at his supposed talents for sorcery 
and grape-devouring, took heart of grace as he got 
to a distance, and having uttered a few cries and 
curses, finally gave them emphasis with a shower 
of stones, although at such a distance as to do little 
or no harm to the object of their displeasure. 
Quentin, as he pursued his walk, began to think, 
in his turn, either that he himself lay under a spell, 
or that the people of Touraine were the most stupid, 
brutal, and inhospitable of the French peasants. 
The next incident which came under his observa- 
tion did not tend to diminish this opinion. 

On a slight eminence, rising above the rapid and 
beautiful Cher, in the direct line of his path, two 
or three large chestnut trees were so happily placed 
as to form a distinguished and remarkable group ; 
and beside them stood three or four peasants, mo- 
tionless, with their eyes turned upwards, and fixed, 
apparently, upon some object amongst the branches 
of the tree next to them. The meditations of youth 
are seldom so profound as not to yield to the slight- 
est impulse of curiosity, as easily as the lightest 
pebble, dropped casually from the hand, breaks the 
surface of a limpid pool. Quentin hastened his 
pace, and ran lightly up the rising ground, time 


86 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

enough to witness the ghastly spectacle which at- 
tracted the notice of these gazers — which was noth- 
ing less than the Body of a man, convulsed by the 
last agony, suspended on one of the branches. 

“ Why do you not cut him down ? ” said the 
young Scot, whose hand was as ready to assist 
affliction, as to maintain his own honour when he 
deemed it assailed. 

One of the peasants, turning on him an eye from 
which fear had banished all expression but its own, 
and a face as pale as clay, pointed to a mark cut 
upon the bark of the tree, having the same rude 
resemblance to a fleur-de-lys which certain talis- 
manic scratches, well known to our revenue officers, 
bear to a broad arrow. Neither understanding nor 
heeding the import of this symbol, young Durward 
sprung lightly as the ounce up into the tree, drew 
from his pouch that most necessary implement of a 
Highlander or woodsman, the trusty sJcene dhu , 1 
and, calling to those below to receive the body on 
their hands, cut the rope asunder in less .than a 
minute after he had perceived the exigency. 

But his humanity was ill seconded by the by- 
standers. So far from rendering Durward any 
assistance, they seemed terrified at the audacity of 
his action, and took to flight with one consent, as 
if they feared their merely looking on might have 
been construed into accession to his daring deed. 
The body, unsupported from beneath, fell heavily 
to earth, in such a manner, that Quentin, who pres- 
ently afterwards jumped down, had the mortification 
to see that the last sparks of life were extinguished. 

1 Black knife ; a species of knife without clasp or hinge, for 
merly much used by the Highlanders, who seldom travelled with 
out such an ugly weapon, though it is now rarely used. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


B? 


He gave not up his charitable purpose, however, 
without farther efforts. He freed the wretched 
man’s neck from the fatal noose, undid the doublet, 
threw water on the face, and practised the other 
ordinary remedies resorted to for recalling sus- 
pended animation. 

While he was thus humanely engaged, a wild 
clamour of tongues, speaking a language which he 
knew not, arose around him ; and he had scarcely 
time to observe that he was surrounded by several 
men and women of a singular and foreign appear- 
ance, when he found himself roughly seized by both 
arms, while a naked knife, at the same moment, 
was offered to his throat. 

“ Pale slave of Eblis ! ” said a man, in imperfect 
French, “ are you robbing him you have murdered ? 
— But we have you — and you shall aby it.” 

There were knives drawn on every side of him 
as these words were spoken, and the grim and dis- 
torted countenances which glared on him, were like 
those of wolves rushing on their prey. 

Still the young Scot’s courage and presence of 
mind bore him out. “ What mean ye, my mas- 
ters ? ” he said ; “ if that be your friend’s body, I 
have just now cut him down, in pure charity, and 
you will do better to try to recover his life, than to 
misuse an innocent stranger to whom he owes his 
chance of escape.” 

The women had by this time taken possession of 
the dead body, and continued the attempts to re- 
cover animation which Durward had been making 
use of, though with the like bad success ; so that, 
desisting from their fruitless efforts, they seemed, 
to abandon themselves to all the Oriental expres- 
sions of grief ; the women making a piteous wailing. 


88 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


and tearing their long black hair, while the men 
seemed to rend their garments, and to sprinkle 
dust upon their heads. They gradually became so 
much engaged in their mourning rites, that they 
bestowed no longer any attention on Durward, of 
whose innocence they were probably satisfied from 
circumstances. It would certainly have been his 
wisest plan to have left these wild people to their 
own courses, but he had been bred in almost reck- 
less contempt of danger, and felt all the eagerness 
of youthful curiosity. 

The singular assemblage, both male and female, 
wore turbans and caps, more similar, in general ap- 
pearance, to his own bonnet, than to the hats com- 
monly worn in France. Several of the men had 
curled black beards, and the complexion of all was 
nearly as dark as that of Africans. One or two, 
who seemed their chiefs, had some tawdry orna- 
ments of silver about their necks and in their ears, 
and wore showy scarfs of yellow, or scarlet, or 
light green ; but their legs and arms were bare, 
and the whole troop seemed wretched and squalid 
in appearance. There were no weapons among 
them that Durward saw, except the long knives 
with which they had lately menaced him, and one 
short crooked sabre, or Moorish sword, which was 
worn by an active-looking young man, who often 
laid his hand upon the hilt, while he surpassed the 
rest of the party in his extravagant expressions of 
grief, and seemed to mingle with them threats of 
vengeance. 

The disordered and yelling group were so differ- 
ent in appearance from any beings whom Quentin 
had yet seen, that he was on the point of concluding 
them to be a party of Saracens, of those “ heathen 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


89 


hounds,” who were the opponents of gentle knights 
and Christian monarchs, in all the romances which 
he had heard or read, and was about to withdraw 
himself from a neighbourhood so perilous, when a 
galloping of horse was heard, and the supposed Sa- 
racens, who had raised by this time the body of 
their comrade upon their shoulders, were at once 
charged by a party of French soldiers. 

This sudden apparition changed the measured 
wailing of the mourners into irregular shrieks of 
terror. The body was thrown to the ground in an 
instant, and those who were around it, showed the 
utmost and most dexterous activity in escaping, 
under the bellies as it were of the horses, from the 
point of the lances which were levelled at them, 
with exclamations of “ Down with the accursed 
heathen thieves — take and kill — bind them like 
beasts — spear them like wolves ! ” 

These cries were accompanied with correspond- 
ing acts of violence ; but such was the alertness of 
the fugitives, the ground being rendered unfavour- 
able to the horsemen by thickets and bushes, that 
only two were struck down and made prisoners, 
one of whom was the young fellow with the sword, 
who had previously offered some resistance. Quen- 
tin, whom fortune seemed at this period to have 
chosen for the butt of her shafts, was at the same 
time seized by the soldiers, and his arms, in spite 
of his remonstrances, bound down with a cord ; 
those who apprehended him showing a readiness 
and dispatch in the operation, which proved them 
to be no novices in matters of police. 

Looking anxiously to the leader of the horse- 
men, from whom he hoped to obtain liberty, Quentin 
knew not exactly whether to be pleased or alarmed 


9 o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


upon recognising in him the down-looking and 
silent companion of Maitre Pierre. True, what- 
ever crime these strangers might he accused of, 
this officer might know, from the history of the 
morning, that he, Durward, had no connexion with 
them whatever ; but it was a more difficult ques- 
tion, whether this sullen man would be either a 
favourable judge or a willing witness in his behalf, 
and he felt doubtful whether he would mend his 
condition by making any direct application to him. 

But there was little leisure for hesitation. “ Trois- 
Eschelles and Petit- An drd,” said the down-look- 
ing officer to two of his band, “ these same trees 
stand here quite convenient. I will teach these 
misbelieving, thieving sorcerers, to interfere with 
the King’s justice, when it has visited any of 
their accursed race. Dismount, my children, and 
do your office briskly.” 

Trois-Eschelles and Petit- Andr^ were in an 
instant on foot, and Quentin observed that they had 
each, at the crupper and pommel of his saddle, a 
coil or two of ropes, which they hastily undid, and 
showed that, in fact, each coil formed a halter, with 
the fatal noose adjusted, ready for execution. The 
blood ran cold in Quentin’s veins, when he saw 
three cords selected, and perceived that it was pro- 
posed to put one around his own neck. He called 
on the officer loudly, reminded him of their meet- 
ing that morning, claimed the right of a free-born 
Scotsman, in a friendly and allied country, and 
denied any knowledge of the persons along with 
whom he was seized, or of their misdeeds. 

The officer whom Durward thus addressed, scarce 
deigned to look at him while he was speaking, 
and took no notice whatever of the claim he 


QUENTIN DU II WARD. 


9i 


preferred to prior acquaintance. He barely turned 
to one or two of the peasants who were now come 
forward, either to volunteer their evidence against 
the prisoners, or out of curiosity, and said gruffly, 
“ Was yonder young fellow with the vagabonds ? ” 

“That he was, sir, and it please your noble 
Provostship,” answered one of the clowns ; “ he was 
the very first blasphemously to cut down the rascal 
whom his Majesty’s justice most deservedly hung 
up, as we told your worship.” 

“ I’ll swear by God, and Saint Martin of Tours, 
to have seen him with their gang,” said another, 
“when they pillaged our metairie.” 

“ Nay, but, father,” said a boy, “ yonder heathen 
was black, and this youth is fair ; yonder one had 
short curled hair, and this hath long fair locks.” 

. “ Ay, child,” said the peasant, “ and perhaps you 
will say yonder one had a green coat and this a grey 
jerkin. But his worship, the Provost, knows that 
they can change their complexions as easily as their 
jerkins, so that I am still minded he was the same.” 

“ It is enough that you have seen him intermeddle 
with the course of the King’s justice, by attempting 
to recover an executed traitor,” said the officer. — 
“ Trois-Eschelles and Petit- Andrd, dispatch.” 

“ Stay, signior officer ! ” exclaimed the youth, in 
mortal agony — “ hear me speak — let me not die 
guiltlessly — my blood will be required of you by my 
countrymen in this world, and by Heaven’s justice 
in that which is to follow.” 

“ I will answer for my actions in both,” said the 
Provost, coldly ; and made a sign with his left hand 
to the executioners ; then, with a smile of triumph- 
ant malice, touched with his forefinger his right arm, 
which hung suspended in a scarf, disabled probably 


92 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

by the blow which Durward had dealt him that 
morning. 

“ Miserable, vindictive wretch ! *' answered Quern 
tin, persuaded by that action that private revenge 
was the sole motive of this man’s rigour, and that 
no mercy whatever was to be expected from him. 

“ The poor youth raves,” said the functionary ; 
“ speak a word of comfort to him ere he make his 
transit, Trois-Eschelles ; thou art a comfortable man 
in such cases, when a confessor is not to be had. 
Give him one minute of ghostly advice, and dispatch 
matters in the next. I must proceed on the rounds. 
— Soldiers, follow me ! ” 

The Provost rode on, followed by his guard, 
excepting two or three who were left to assist in the 
execution. The unhappy youth cast after him an 
eye almost darkened by despair, and thought he 
heard, in every tramp of his horse’s retreating hoofs, 
the last slight chance of his safety vanish. He 
looked around him in agony, and was surprised, even 
in that moment, to see the stoical indifference of his 
fellow-prisoners. They had previously testified 
every sign of fear, and made every effort to escape ; 
but now, when secured, and destined apparently 
to inevitable death, they awaited its arrival with 
the utmost composure. The scene of fate before 
them gave, perhaps, a more yellow tinge to their 
swarthy cheeks ; but it neither agitated their fea- 
tures, nor quenched the stubborn haughtiness of 
their eye. They seemed like foxes, which, after 
all their wiles and artful attempts at escape are 
exhausted, die with a silent and sullen fortitude, 
which wolves and bears, the fiercer objects of the 
chase, do not exhibit. 

They were undaunted by the conduct of the fatal 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


93 


executioners, who went about their work with more 
deliberation than their master had recommended, 
and which probably arose from their having ac- 
quired by habit a kind of pleasure in the discharge 
of their horrid office. We pause an instant to de- 
scribe them, because, under a tyranny, whether 
despotic or popular, the character of the hangman 
becomes a subject of grave importance. 

These functionaries were essentially different in 
their appearance and manners. Louis used to call 
them Democritus and Heraclitus, and their master, 
the Provost, termed them, Jean-qui-pleure , and 
Jean-qui-rit. 

Trois-Eschelles was a tall, thin, ghastly man, with 
a peculiar gravity of visage, and a large rosary round 
his neck, the use of which he was accustomed piously 
to offer to those sufferers on whom he did his duty. 
He had one or two Latin texts continually in his 
mouth on the nothingness and vanity of human life; 
and, had it been regular to have enjoyed such a 
plurality, he might have held the office of confessor 
to the jail in commendam with that of executioner. 
Petit-Andr^, on the contrary, was a joyous-looking, 
round, active, little fellow, who rolled about in exe- 
cution of his duty as if it were the most diverting 
occupation in the world. He seemed to have a sort 
of fond affection for his victims, and always spoke 
of them in kindly and affectionate terms. They 
were his poor honest fellows, his pretty dears, his 
gossips, his good old fathers, as their age or sex 
might be; and as Trois-Eschelles endeavoured to 
inspire them with a philosophical or religious 
regard to futurity, Petit- Andr^ seldom failed to 
refresh them with a jest or two, as if to induce 
them to pass from life as something that was ludi- 


94 QUENTIN DUKWAKD. 

crous, contemptible, and not worthy of serious 
consideration. 

I cannot tell why or wherefore it was, but these 
two excellent persons, notwithstanding the variety 
of their talents, and the rare occurrence of such 
among persons of their profession, were both more 
utterly detested than, perhaps, any creatures of their 
kind, whether before or since ; and the only doubt 
of those who knew aught of them was, whether the 
grave and pathetic Trois-Eschelles, or the frisky, 
comic, alert Petit-Andrd, was the object of the 
greatest fear or of the deepest execration. It is 
certain they bore the palm in both particulars over 
every hangman in France, unless it were perhaps 
their master, Tristan l’Herinite, the renowned Pro- 
vost-Marshal, or his master, Louis XI . 1 

It must not be supposed that these reflections 
were of Quentin Durward’s making. Life, death, 
time, and eternity, were swimming Before his eyes 
— a stunning and overwhelming prospect, from 
which human nature recoiled in its weakness, 
though human pride would fain have borne up. 
He addressed himself to the God of his fathers ; 
and when he did so, the little rude and unroofed 
chapel, which now held almost all his race but him- 
self, rushed on his recollection. “ Our feudal enemies 
gave my kindred graves in our own land,” he 
thought, “ but I must feed the ravens and kites of a 

1 One of these two persons, I learned from the Chronique de 
Jean de Troyes, but too late to avail myself of the information, 
might with more accuracy have been called Petit-Jean, than Petit- 
Andre. This was actually the name of the son of Henry de 
Cousin, master executioner of the High Court of Justice. The 
Constable Saint Paul was executed by him with such dexterity, 
that the head, when struck off, struck the ground at the same time 
with the body. This was in 1475. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


95 


foreign land, like an excommunicated felon ’ '' The 
tears gushed involuntarily from his eyes. Trois- 
Eschelles, touching one shoulder, gravely congratu- 
lated him on his heavenly disposition for death, and 
pathetically exclaiming, Beati qui in Domino mori- 
untur , remarked the soul was happy that left 
the body while the tear was in the eye. Petit- 
Andr^, slapping the other shoulder, called out, 
“ Courage, my fair son ! since you must begin the 
dance, let the ball open gaily, for all the rebecs are 
in tune,” twitching the halter at the same time, to 
give point to his joke. As the youth turned his dis- 
mayed looks, first on one and then on the other, they 
made their meaning plainer by gently urging him 
forward to the fatal tree, and bidding him be of 
good courage, for it would be over in a moment. 

In this fatal predicament, the youth cast a dis- 
tracted look around him. “ Is there any good 
Christian who hears me,” he said, “ that will tell 
Ludovic Lesly of the Scottish Guard, called in this 
country Le Balafrd, that his nephew is here basely 
murdered ? ” 

The words were spoken in good time, for an 
Archer of the Scottish Guard, attracted by the pre- 
parations foi the execution, was standing by, with 
one or two other chance-passengers, to witness what 
was passing. 

“ Take heed what you do,” he said to the execu- 
tioners ; “ if this young man be of Scottish birth, I 
will not permit him to have foul play.” 

“ Heaven forbid, Sir Cavalier,” said Trois-Eschelles ; 
“ but we must obey our orders,” drawing Durward for- 
ward by one arm. 

“ The shortest play is ever the fairest,” said Petit- 
Andrd, pulling him onward by the other. 


96 


QUEJNTIN DURWARD. 


But Quentin had heard words of comfort, and, 
exerting his strength, he suddenly shook off botli 
the finishers of the law, and, with his arms still 
hound, ran to the Scottish Archer. “ Stand by me, 
countryman,” he said in his own language, “ for the 
love of Scotland and Saint Andrew ! I am innocent 
— I am your own native landsman. Stand by me, 
as you shall answer at the last day ! ” 

“ By Saint Andrew ! they shall make at you 
through me,” said the Archer, and unsheathed 
his sword. 

“ Cut my bonds, countryman,” said Quentin, 
“and I will do something for myself.” 

This was done with a touch of the Archer’s 
weapon ; and the liberated captive, springing sud- 
denly on one of the Provost’s guard, wrested from 
him a halberd with which he was armed ; “ And 
now,” he said, “ come on, if you dare ! ” 

The two officers whispered together. 

“ Ride thou after the Provost-Marshal,” said 
Trois-Eschelles, “and I will detain them here, if 
I can. — Soldiers of the Provost’s guard, stand to 
your arms.” 

Petit- An drd mounted his horse and left the field, 
and the other Marshals-men in attendance drew 
together so hastily at the command of Trois- 
Eschelles, that they suffered the other wo prisoners 
to make their escape during the confusion. Perhaps 
they were not very anxious to detain them ; for 
they had of late been sated with the blood of such 
wretches, and, like other ferocious animals, were, 
through long slaughter, become tired of carnage. 
But the pretext was, that they thought themselves 
immediately called upon to attend to the safety of 
Trois-Eschelles ; for there was a jealousy, which 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


97 


occasionally led to open quarrels betwixt the Scot- 
tish Archers and the Marshal-guards, who executed 
the orders of their Provost. 

“We are strong enough to beat the proud Scots 
twice over, if it be your pleasure,” said one of these 
soldiers to Trois-Eschelles. 

But that cautious official made a sign to him to 
remain quiet, and addressed the Scottish Archer 
with great civility. “Surely, sir, this is a great 
insult to the Provost-Marshal, that you should 
presume to interfere with the course of the King’s 
justice, duly and lawfully committed to his charge ; 
and it is no act of justice to me, who am in lawful 
possession of my criminal. Neither is it a well- 
meant kindness to the youth himself, seeing that 
fifty opportunities of hanging him may occur, 
without his being found in so happy a state of 
preparation as he was before your ill-advised 
interference.” 

“ If my young countryman,” said the Scot, smil- 
ing, “be of opinion I have done him an injury, I 
will return him to your charge without a word 
more dispute.” 

“No, no! — for the love of Heaven, no!” ex- 
claimed Quentin. “I would rather you swept my 
head off with your long sword — it would better 
become my birth, than to die by the hands of such 
a foul churl.” 

“Hear how he revileth !” said the finisher of the 
law. “ Alas ! how soon our best resolutions pass 
away ! — he was in a blessed frame for departure 
but now, and in two minutes he has become a 
contemner of authorities.” 

“ Tell me at once,” said the Archer, “ what has 
this young man done ? ” 


9 8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ Interfered,” answered Trois-Eschelles, with 
some earnestness, “ to take down the dead body of 
a criminal, when the fleur-de-lys was marked on 
the tree where he was hung with my own proper 
hand.” 

“ How is this, young man ? ” said the Archer ; 
“ how came you to have committed such an 
offence ? ” 

“As I desire your protection,” answered Dur- 
ward, “I will tell you the truth as if I were at 
confession. I saw a man struggling on the tree, 
and I went to cut him down out of mere humanity. 
I thought neither of fleur-de-lys nor of clove -gilli- 
flower, and had no more idea of offending the King 
of France than our Father the Pope.” 

“What a murrain had you to do with the dead 
body, then ? ” said the Archer. “ You’ll see them 
hanging, in the rear of this gentleman, like grapes 
on every tree, and you will have enough to do in 
this country if you go a-gleaning after the hang- 
man. However, I will not quit a countryman’s 
cause if I can help it. — Hark ye, Master Marshals- 
man, you see this is entirely a mistake. You should 
have some compassion on so young a traveller. In 
our country at home he has not been accustomed 
to see such active proceedings as yours and your 
master’s.” 

“ Hot for want of need of them, Signior Archer,” 
said Petit-Andr£, who returned at this moment. 
“ Stand fast, Trois-Eschelles, for here comes the 
Provost-Marshal ; we shall presently see how he 
will relish having his work taken out of his hand 
before it is finished.” 

“ And in good time,” said the Archer. “ here 
come some of my comrades.” 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


99 


Accordingly, as the Provost Tristan rode up with 
his patrol on one side of the little hill which was 
the scene of the altercation, four or five Scottish 
Archers came as hastily up on the other, and at 
their head the Balafr^ himself. 

Upon this urgency, Lesly showed none of that 
indifference towards his nephew of which Quentin 
had in his heart accused him ; for he no sooner saw 
his comrade and Durward standing upon their de- 
fence, than he exclaimed, “Cunningham, I thank 
thee. — Gentlemen — comrades, lend me your aid — 
It is a young Scottish gentleman — my nephew — 
Lindesay — Guthrie — Tyrie, draw, and strike in ! ” 
There was now every prospect of a desperate 
scuffle between the parties, who were not so dis- 
proportioned in numbers, hut that the better arms 
of the Scottish cavaliers gave them an equal chance 
of victory. But the Provost-Marshal, either doubt- 
ing the issue of the conflict, or aware that it would 
he disagreeable to the King, made a sign to his fol- 
lowers to forbear from violence, while he demanded 
of Balafrd, who now put himself forward as the 
head of the other party, “ What he, a cavalier of 
the King’s Body-Guard, purposed by opposing the 
execution of a criminal ? ” 

“ I deny that I do so,” answered the Balafrd. 
“ Saint Martin ! there is, I think, some difference 
between the execution of a criminal, and the 
slaughter of my own nephew ? ” 

“ Your nephew may be a criminal as well as 
another, Signor,” said the Provost-Marshal ; “ and 
every stranger in France is amenable to the laws 
of France.” # 

“ Yes, but we have privileges, we Scottish 
Archers,” said Balafrd ; “ have we not, comrades ? ” 


IOO 


QUENTIN DU11WARD. 


“ Yes, yes,” they all exclaimed together. “ Priv- 
ileges — privileges ! Long live King Louis — long live 
the bold Balafr^ — long live the Scottish Guard — 
and death to all who would infringe our privileges ! ” 

“ Take reason with you, gentlemen cavaliers,” said 
the Provost-Marshal; “consider my commission.” 

“We will have no reason at your hand,” said 
Cunningham; “ our own officers shall do us reason 
We will be judged by the King’s grace, or by our 
own Captain, now that the Lord High Constable is 
not in presence.” 

“ And we will be hanged by none,” said Linde- 
say, “but Sandie Wilson, the auld Marshals-man of 
our ain body.” 

“ It would be a positive cheating of Sandie, who 
is as honest a man as ever tied noose upon hemp, 
did we give way to any other proceeding,” said the 
BalafrA “Were I to be hanged myself, no other 
should tie tippet about my craig.” 

“But hear ye,” said the Provost-Marshal, “this 
young fellow belongs not to you, and cannot share 
what you call your privileges.” 

“ What we call our privileges, all shall admit to 
he such,” said Cunningham. 

“We will not hear them questioned ! ” was the 
universal cry of the Archers. 

“ Ye are mad, my masters,” said Tristan l’Hermite 
— “No one disputes your privileges ; but this youth 
is not one of you.” 

“He is my nephew,” said the Balafrd, with a 
triumphant air. 

“ But no Archer of the Guard, I think,” retorted 
Tristan l’Hermite. 

The Archers looked on each other in some un- 
certainty. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. iot 

* c Stand to it yet, comrade,” whispered Cunning- 
ham to Balafrd — “ Say he is engaged with us.” 

“ Saint Martin ! you say well, fair countryman,” 
answered Lesly ; and, raising his voice, swore that 
he had that day enrolled his kinsman as one of his 
own retinue. 

This declaration was a decisive argument. 

“ It is well, gentlemen,” said the Provost Tristan, 
who was aware of the King’s nervous apprehension 
of disaffection creeping in among his Guards — 
“ You know, as you say, your privileges, and it is 
not my duty to have brawls with the King’s Guards, 
if it is to be avoided. But I will report this matter 
for the King’s own decision ; and I would have you 
to be aware, that, in doing so, I act more mildly than 
perhaps my duty warrants me.” 

So saying, he put his troop into motion, while 
the Archers, remaining on the spot, held a hasty 
consultation what was next to be done. 

“ We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, 
our Captain, in the first place, and have the young 
fellow’s name put on the roll.” 

“ But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and 
preservers,” said Quentin, with some hesitation, “ I 
have not yet determined whether to take service 
with you or no.” 

“ Then settle in your own mind,” said his uncle, 
“ whether you choose to do so, or be hanged — 
for I promise you, that, nephew of mine as you 
are, I see no other chance of your ’scaping the 
gallows.” 

This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced 
Quentin at once to acquiesce in what he might have 
otherwise considered as no very agreeable proposal ; 
but the recent escape from the halter, which had 


102 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


been actually around his neck, would probably have 
reconciled him to a worse alternative than was 
proposed. 

“ He must go home with us to our caserne,” said 
Cunningham; “there is no safety for him out of 
our bounds, whilst these man-hunters are prowling 
about.” 

“ May I not then abide for this night at the 
hostelry where I breakfasted, fair uncle ? ” said the 
youth — thinking, perhaps, like many a new recruit, 
that even a single night of freedom was something 

o o o 

gained. 

“ Yes, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, ironically, 
“ that we may have the pleasure of fishing you out 
of some canal or moat, or perhaps out of a loop of 
the Loire, knit up in a sack, for the greater conve- 
nience of swimming — for that is like to be the end 
on’t. — The Provost-Marshal smiled on us when we 
parted,” continued he, addressing Cunningham, “ and 
that is a sign his thoughts were dangerous.” 

“I care not for his danger,” said Cunningham; 
“ such game as we are beyond his bird -bolts. But I 
would have thee tell the whole to the Devil’s 
Oliver, who is always a good friend to the Scottish 
Guard, and will see Father Louis before the Provost 
can, for he is to shave him to-morrow.” 

“But hark you,” said Balafrd, “it is ill going 
to Oliver empty-handed, and I am as bare as the 
birch in December.” 

“ So are we all,” said Cunningham — “ Oliver 
must not scruple to take our Scottish words for 
once. We will make up something handsome among 
us against the next pay-day ; and if he expects to 
share, let me tell you, the pay-day will come about 
all the sooner.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


103 


“ And now for the Chateau,” said Balafr^ ; “ and 
my nephew shall tell us by the way how he brought 
the Provost-Marshal on his shoulders, that we may 
know how to frame our report both to Crawford 
and Oliver.” 1 


1 Note jl. — Gipsies or Bohemians. 


CHAPTER VI). 


THE ENROLMENT. 

Justice of Peace . — Here, hand me down the Statute — read 
the articles — 

Swear, kiss the book — subscribe, and be a hero ; 

Drawing a portion from the public stock 

For deeds of valour to be done hereafter — 

Sixpence per day, subsistence and arrears. 

The Recruiting Officer 

An attendant upon the Archers having been dis- 
mounted, Quentin Durward was accommodated 
with his horse, and, in company of his martial coun- 
trymen, rode at a round pace towards the Castle of 
Plessis, about to become, although on his own part 
involuntarily, an inhabitant of that gloomy fortress, 
the outside of which had, that morning, struck him 
with so much surprise. 

In the meanwhile, in answer to his uncle’s 
repeated interrogations, he gave him an exact 
account of the accident which had that morning 
brought him into so much danger. Although he 
himself saw nothing in his narrative save what was 
affecting, he found it was received with much 
laughter by his escort. 

“ And yet it is no good jest either,” said his 
uncle, “ for what, in the devil’s name, could lead 
the senseless boy to meddle with the body of a 
cursed misbelieving Jewish Moorish pagan?” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


105 


“ Had he quarrelled with the Marshals-men 
about a pretty wench, as Michael of Moffat did, there 
had been more sense in it,” said Cunningham. 

“ But I think it touches our honour, that Tristan 
and his people pretend to confound our Scottish 
bonnets with these pilfering vagabonds’ tocques and 
turlands, as they call them,” said Lind&say — “If 
they have not eyes to see the difference, they must 
be taught by rule of hand. But it’s my belief, 
Tristan but pretends to mistake, that he may snap 
up the kindly Scots that come over to see their 
kinsfolks.” 

“ May I ask, kinsman,” said Quentin, “ what sort 
of people these are of whom you speak ? ” 

“ In troth you may ask,” said his uncle, “ but I 
know not, fair nephew, who is able to answer you. 
Not I, I am sure, although 1 know, it may be, as 
much as other people ; but they have appeared in 
this land within a year or two, just as a flight of 
locusts might do.” 1 

“ Ay,” said Lindesay, “ and Jacques Bonhomme, 
(that is our name for the peasant, young man, — 
you will learn our way of talk in time,) — honest 
Jacques, I say, cares little what wind either brings 
them or the locusts, so he but knows any gale that 
would carry them away again.” 

“ Do they do so much evil ? ” asked the young 
man. 

“Evil? — why, boy, they are heathens, or Jews, 
or Mahommedans at the least, and neither worship 
Our Lady nor the Saints ” — (crossing himself ) 

“ and steal what they can lay hands on, and sing, 
and tell fortunes,” added Cunningham. 

“And they say there are some goodly wenches 

1 See Note I., on the Gipsies or Bohemians. 


106 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

amongst these women,” said Guthrie; “but Cun- 
ningham knows that best.” 

“ How, brother ! ” said Cunningham ; “ I trust ye 
mean me no reproach ? ” 

“ T am sure I said ye none,” answered Guthrie. 

“I will be judged by the company,” said Cun- 
ningham. — “ Ye said as much as that I, a Scottish 
gentleman; and living within pale of holy church, 
had a fair friend among these off-scourings of 
Heathenesse.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Balafr^, “he did but jest — We 
will have no quarrels among comrades.” 

“We must have no such jesting then,” said 
Cunningham, murmuring as if he had been speak- 
ing to his own beard. 

“ Be there such vagabonds in other lands than 
France ? ” said Lindesay. 

“ Ay, in good sooth, are there — tribes of them 
have appeared in Germany, and in Spain, and in 
England,” answered Balafrd. “By the blessing of 
good Saint Andrew, Scotland is free of them yet.” 

“Scotland,” said Cunningham, “is too cold a 
country for locusts, and too poor a country for 
thieves.” 

“Or perhaps John Highlander will suffer no 
thieves to thrive there but his own,” said Guthrie. 

“ I let you all know,” said Balafrd, “ that I come 
from the braes of .Angus, and have gentle High- 
land kin in Glen-isla, and I will not have the 
Highlanders slandered.” 

“ You will not deny that they are cattle-lifters ? ” 
said Guthrie. 

“ To drive a spreagh, or so, is no thievery,” said 
Balafr^, “and that I will maintain when and how 
you dare.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


107 


“ For shame, comrade,” said Cunningham, “ who 
quarrels now ? — the young man should not see such 
mad misconstruction. — Come, here we are at the 
Chateau. I will bestow a runlet of wine to have 
a rouse in friendship, and drink to Scotland, High- 
land and Lowland both, if you will meet me at 
dinner at my quarters.” 

“ Agreed — agreed,” said Balafr^ ; “ and I will 
bestow another, to wash away unkindness, and to 
drink a health to my nephew on his first entrance 
to our corps.” 

At their approach, the wicket was opened, and 
the drawbridge fell. One by one they entered ; 
but when Quentin appeared, the sentinels crossed 
their pikes, and commanded him to stand, while 
bows were bent, and harquebusses aimed at him 
from the walls — a rigour of vigilance used, not- 
withstanding that the young stranger came in com- 
pany of a party of the garrison, nay, of the very 
body which furnished the sentinels who were then 
upon duty. 

Le Balafrd, who had remained by his nephew’s 
side on purpose, gave the necessary explanations, 
and, after some considerable hesitation and delay, 
the youth was conveyed under a strong guard to 
the Lord Crawford’s apartment. 

This Scottish nobleman was one of the last rel- 
ics of the gallant band of Scottish lords and knights 
who had so long and so truly served Charles YI. 
in those bloody wars which decided the indepen- 
dence of the French crown, and the expulsion of the 
English. He had fought, when a boy, abreast with 
Douglas and with Buchan, had ridden beneath the 
banner of the Maid of Arc, and was perhaps one of the 
last of those associates of Scottish chivalry who had so 


io8 QUENTIN DURW^RD. 

willingly drawn their swords for the fleur-de-lys i 
against their “ auld enemies of England.” Changes 
which had taken place in the Scottish kingdom, 
and perhaps his having become habituated to 
French climate and manners, had induced the old 
Baron to resign all thoughts of returning to his 
native country, the rather that the high office 
which he held in the household of Louis, and his 
own frank and loyal character, had gained a con- 
siderable ascendency over the King, who, though 
in general no ready believer in human virtue or 
honour, trusted and confided in those of the Lord 
Crawford, and allowed him the greater influence, 
because he was never known to interfere except- 
ing in matters which concerned his charge. 

Balafrd and Cunningham followed Durward and 
the guard to the apartment of their officer, by whose 
dignified appearance, as well as with the respect 
paid to him by these proud soldiers, who seemed to 
respect no one else, the young man was much and 
strongly impressed. 

Lord Crawford was tall, and through advanced 
age had become gaunt and thin; yet retaining in 
his sinews the strength, at least, if not the elasticity, 
of youth, he was able to endure the weight of his 
armour during a march as well as the youngest man 
who rode in his band. He was hard-favoured, with 
a scarred and weatherbeaten countenance, and an 
eye that had looked upon death as his playfellow 
in thirty pitched battles, but which nevertheless 
expressed a calm contempt of danger, rather than 
the ferocious courage of a mercenary soldier. His 
tall erect figure was at present wrapped in a loose 
chamber-gown, secured around him by his buff belt, 
in which was suspended his richly liilted poniard. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


109 

He had round his neck the collar and badge of the 
order of Saint Michael. He sat upon a couch cov- 
ered with deer’s hide, and with spectacles on his 
nose, (then a recent invention,) was labouring to 
read a huge manuscript, called the Rosier de la 
Guerre , a code of military and civil policy which 
Louis had compiled for the benefit of his son the 
Dauphin, and upon which he was desirous to have 
the opinion of the experienced Scottish warrior. 

Lord Crawford laid his book somewhat peevishly 
aside upon the entrance of these unexpected visitors, 
and demanded, in his broad national dialect, “ What, 
in the foul fiend’s name, they lacked now ? ” 

Le Balafr£, with more respect than perhaps he 
would have shown to Louis himself, stated at full 
length the circumstances in which his nephew was 
placed, and humbly requested his Lordship's pro- 
tection. Lord Crawford listened very attentively. 
He could not but smile at the simplicity with 
which the youth had interfered in behalf of the 
hanged criminal, but he shook his head at the ac- 
count which he received of the ruffle betwixt the 
Scottish Archers and the Provost-Marshal’s guard. 1 
“ How often,” he said, “ will you bring me such 
ill-winded pirns to ravel out ? How often must I 
tell you, and especially both you, Ludovic Lesly, 
and you, Archie Cunningham, that the foreign sol- 
dier should bear himself modestly and decorously 

1 Such disputes between the Scots Guards, and the other con- 
stituted authorities of the ordinary military corps, often occurred. 
In 1474, two Scotsmen had been concerned in robbing John Pen- 
sart, a fishmonger, of a large sum of money. They were accord- 
ingly apprehended by Philip du Four, Provost, with some of his 
followers. But ere they could lodge one of them, called Mortimer, 
in the prison of the Chastellet, they were attacked by two Archers of 
the King’s Scottish Guard, who rescued the prisoner. — See Chro 
nique de Jean de Troyes, at the said year, 1474. 


IO 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


towards the people of the country, if you would not 
have the whole dogs of the town at your heels? 
However, if you must have a bargain , 1 I would 
rather it were with that loon of a Provost than any 
one else ; and I blame you less for this onslaught 
than for other frays that you have made, Ludovic, 
for it was but natural and kindlike to help your 
young kinsman. This simple bairn must come to 
no skaith neither ; so give me the roll of the com- 
pany yonder down from the shelf, and we will even 
add his name to the troop, that he may enjoy the 
privileges.” 

“May it please your Lordship” — said Dur- 
ward 

“Is the lad crazed ! ” exclaimed his uncle — 
“ Would you speak to his Lordship, without a 
question asked ? ” 

“ Patience, Ludovic,” said Lord Crawford, “ and 
let us hear what the bairn has to say.” 

“Only this, if it may please your Lordship,” 
replied Quentin, “ that I told my uncle formerly 
I had some doubts about entering this service. I 
have now to say that they are entirely removed, 
since I have seen the noble and experienced com- 
mander under whom I am to serve ; for there is 
authority in your look.” 

“ Weel said, my bairn,” said the old Lord, not 
insensible to the compliment ; “ we have had some 
experience, had God sent us grace to improve by it, 
both in service and in command. There you stand, 
Quentin, in our honourable corps of Scottish Body- 
guards, as esquire to your uncle, and serving under 
his lance. I trust you will do well, for you should 
be a right man-at-arms, if all. be good that is up 
1 A quarrel, videlicet. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


hi 


come , 1 and you are come of a gentle kindred. — 
Ludovic, you will see that your kinsman follow his 
exercise diligently, for we will have spears breaking 
one of these days.” 

“ By my hilts, and I am glad of it, my Lord — 
this peace makes cowards of us all. I myself feel 
a sort of decay of spirit, closed up in this cursed 
dungeon of a Castle.” 

“ Well, a bird whistled in my ear,” continued 
Lord Crawford, “ that the old banner will be soon 
dancing in the field again.” 

“ I will drink a cup the deeper this evening to 
that very tune,” said Balafrfi. 

“ Thou wilt drink to any tune,” said Lord Craw- 
ford ; “ and I fear me, Ludovic, you will drink a 
bitter browst of your own brewing one day.” 

Lesly, a little abashed, replied, “that it had not 
been his wont for many a day ; but his Lordship 
knew the use of the company, to have a carouse to 
the health of a new comrade.” 

“True,” said the old leader, “I had forgot the 
occasion. I will send a few stoups of wine to assist 
your carouse ; but let it be over by sunset. And, 
hark ye — let the soldiers for duty be carefully 
pricked off ; and see that none of them be more or 
less partakers of your debauch.” 

“ Your Lordship shall be lawfully obeyed,” said 
Ludovic ; “ and your health duly remembered.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Lord Crawford, “ T may look in 
myself upon your mirth — just to see that all is 
carried decently.” 

“ Your Lordship shall be most dearly welcome,” 
said Ludovic ; and the whole party retreated in 

1 That is, if your courage corresponds with your personal 
appearance. 


112 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


high spirits to prepare for their military banquet, 
to which Lesly invited about a score of his com- 
rades, who were pretty much in the habit of making 
their mess together. 

A soldier’s festival is generally a very extempore 
affair, providing there is enough of meat and drink 
to be had; but on the present occasion, Ludovic 
bustled about to procure some better wine than or- 
dinary ; observing, that the “ old Lord was the surest 
gear in their aught, and that, while he preached 
sobriety to them, he himself, after drinking at the 
royal table as much wine as he could honestly come 
by, never omitted any creditable opportunity to 
fill up the evening over the wine-pot ; so you must 
prepare, comrades,” he said, “ to hear the old his- 
tories of the battles of Vernoil and BeaugA” 1 

The Gothic apartment in which they generally 
met was, therefore, hastily put into the best order ; 
their grooms were dispatched to collect green rushes 
to spread upon the floor; and banners, under which 
the Scottish Guard had marched to battle, or which 
they had taken from the enemies’ ranks, were dis- 
played, by way of tapestry, over the table, and 
around the walls of the chamber. 

The next point was, to invest the young recruit 
as hastily as possible with the dress and appropri- 
ate arms of the Guard, that he might appear in 
every respect the sharer of its important privileges, 
in virtue of which, and by the support of his coun- 
trymen, he might freely brave the power and the 
displeasure of the Provost-Marshal — although the 

i In both these battles, the Scottish auxiliaries of France, under 
Stewart, Earl of Buchan, were distinguished. At Beauge they were 
victorious, killing the Duke of Clarence, Henry Vth’s brother, and 
cutting off his army. At Vernoil they were defeated, and nearly 
extirpated. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


"3 


one was known to be as formidable, as the other 
was unrelenting. 

The banquet was joyous in the highest degree ; 
and the guests gave vent to the whole current of 
their national partiality on receiving into their ranks 
a . recruit from their beloved father-land. Old 
Scottish songs were sung, old tales of Scottish heroes 
told — the achievements of their fathers, and the 
scenes in which they were wrought, were recalled 
to mind : and, for a time, the rich plains of Touraine 
seemed converted into the mountainous and sterile 
regions of Caledonia. 

When their enthusiasm was at high flood, and 
each was endeavouring to say something to enhance 
the dear remembrance of Scotland, it received a 
new impulse from the arrival of Lord Crawford, 
who, as Le Balafrd had well prophesied, sat as it 
were on thorns at the royal board, until an oppor- 
tunity occurred of making his escape to the revelry 
of his own countrymen. A chair of state had been 
reserved for him at the upper end of the table ; for, 
according to the manners of the age, and the con- 
stitution of that body, although their leader and 
commander under the King and High Constable, 
the members of the corps (as we should now say, 
the privates) being all ranked as noble by birth, 
their Captain sat with them at the same table with- 
out impropriety, and might mingle when he chose 
in their festivity, without derogation from his 
dignity as commander. 

At present, however, Lord Crawford declined 
occupying the seat prepared for him, and bidding 
them “ hold themselves merry,” stood looking on 
the revel with a countenance which seemed greatly 
to enjoy it. 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


114 

“ Let him alone,” whispered Cunningham to 
Lindesay, as the latter offered the wine to their 
noble Captain, “ let him alone — hurry no man’s 
cattle — let him take it of his own accord.” 

In fact, the old Lord, who at first smiled, shook 
Lis head, and placed the untasted wine-cup before 
him, began presently, as if it were in absence of 
mind, to sip a little of the contents, and in doing so, 
fortunately recollected that it would be ill-luck did 
he not drink a draught to the health of the gallant 
lad who had joined them this day. The pledge was 
filled, and answered, as may be well supposed, with 
many a joyous shout, when the old leader proceeded 
to acquaint them that he had possessed Master 
Oliver with an account of what had passed that day : 
“And as,” he said, “the scraper of chins hath no 
great love for the stretcher of throats, he has joined 
me in obtaining from the King an order, command- 
ing the Provost to suspend all proceedings, under 
whatever pretence, against Quentin Durward ; and 
to respect, on all occasions, the privileges of the 
Scottish Guard.” 

Another shout broke forth, the cups were again 
filled till the wine sparkled on the brim, and there 
was an acclaim to the health of the noble Lord 
Crawford, the brave conservator of the privileges 
and rights of his countrymen. The good old Lord 
could not but in courtesy do reason to this pledge 
also, and gliding into the ready chair, as it were 
without reflecting what he was doing, he caused 
Quentin to come up beside him, and assailed him 
with many more questions concerning the state of 
Scotland, and the great families there, than he was 
well able to answer; while ever and anon, in the 
course of his queries, the good Lord kissed the 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


15 


wine-cup by way of parenthesis, remarking, that 
sociality became Scottish gentlemen, but that young 
men, like Quentin, ought to practise it cautiously, 
lest it might degenerate into excess; upon which 
occasion he uttered many excellent things, until liis 
own tongue, although employed in the praises 
temperance, began to articulate something thicker 
than usual. It was now that, while the military 
ardour of the company augmented with each flagon 
which they emptied, Cunningham called on them 
to drink the speedy hoisting of the Oriflamme (the 
royal banner of France.) 

“ And a breeze of Burgundy to fan it ! ” echoed 
Lindesay. 

“ With all the soul that is left in this worn body 
do I accept the pledge, bairns,” echoed Lord Craw- 
ford ; “ and as old as I am, I trust I may see it 
flutter yet. Hark ye, my mates,” (for wine had 
made him something communicative,) “ye are all 
true servants to the French crown, and wherefore 
should ye not know there is an envoy come from 
Duke Charles of Burgundy, with a message of an 
angry favour.” 

“ I saw the Count of Crkvecoeur’s equipage, horses 
and retinue,” said another of the guests, “down at 
the inn yonder, at the Mulberry Grove. They say 
the King will not admit him into the Castle.” 

“ Now, Heaven send him an ungracious answer ! ” 
said Guthrie ; “but what is it he complains of ?” 

“ A world of grievances upon the frontier,” said 
Lord Crawford : “and latterly, that the King hath 
received under his protection a lady of his land, a 
young Countess, who hath fled from Dijon, because, 
being a ward of the Duke, he would have her marry 
his favourite, Campo-basso.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


116 

“ And hath she actually come hither alone, my 
Lord ? ” said Lindesay. 

“ Nay, not altogether alone, but with the old 
Countess, her kinswoman, who hath yielded to her 
cousin’s wishes in this matter.” 

“ And will the King,” said Cunningham, “ he 
being the Duke’s feudal sovereign, interfere be- 
tween the Duke and his ward, over whom Charles hath 
the same right, which, were he himself dead, the 
King would have over the heiress of Burgundy ? ” 

“ The King will be ruled, as he is wont, by rules 
of policy ; and you know,” continued Crawford, 
“ that he hath not publicly received these ladies, 
nor placed them under the protection of his daugh- 
ters, the Lady of Beaujeau, or the Princess Joan, 
so, doubtless, he will be guided by circumstances. 
He is our master — but it is no treason to say, he 
will chase' with the hounds, and run with the hare, 
with any Prince in Christendom.” 

“ But the Duke of Burgundy understands no 
such doubling,” said Cunningham. 

“No,” answered the old Lord; “and, therefore, 
it is likely to make work between them.” 

“ Well — Saint Andrew further the fray ! ” said 
Le Balafrd. “ I had it foretold me ten, ay, twenty 
years since, that I was to make the fortune of my 
house by marriage. Who knows what may happen,, 
if once we come to fight for honour and ladies’ love,, 
as they do in the old romaunts ? ” 

“ Thou name ladies’ love, with such a trench in 
thy visage ! ” said Guthrie. 

“ As well not love at all, as love an Bohemkn 
woman of Heathenesse,” retorted Le BalafrA 

“ Hold there, comrades,” said Lord Crawford ; 
“no tilting with sharp weapons, no jesting with 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


117 

keen scoffs — friends all. And for the lady, 
she is too wealthy to fall to ’ a poor Scottish lord, 
or I would put in my own claim, fourscore years 
and all, or not very far from it. But here is her 
health, nevertheless, for they say she is a lamp of 
beauty.” 

“ I think I saw her,” said another soldier, “ when 
I was upon guard this morning at the inner bar- 
rier ; but she was more like a dark lantern than a 
lamp, for she and another were brought into the 
Chateau in close litters.” 

“ Shame i shame ! Arnot ! ” said Lord Crawford ; 
“ a soldier on duty should say nought of what he 
sees. Besides,” he added after a pause, his own 
curiosity prevailing over the show of discipline 
which he had thought it necessary to exert, “ why 
should these letters contain this very same Countess 
Isabelle de Croye ? ” 

“ Nay, my Lord,” replied Arnot, “ I know nothing 
of it save this, that my coutelier was airing my 
horses in the road to the village, and fell in with 
Doguin the muleteer, who brought back the litters 
to the inn, for they belong to the fellow of the 
Mulberry Grove yonder — he of the Fleur-de-Lys, 
I mean — and so Doguin asked Saunders Steed to 
take a cup of wine, as they were acquainted, which 
he was no doubt willing enough to do ” 

“No doubt — no doubt,” said the old Lord; “it 
is a thing I wish were corrected among you, gentle- 
men ; but all your grooms and couteliers, and jack- 
men, as we should call them in Scotland, are but 
too ready to take a cup of wine with any one — It 
is a thing perilous in war, and must be amended. 
But, Andrew Arnot, this is a long tale of yours, 
and we will cut it with a drink ; as the Highlander 


n8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


says, Skeoch dock nan skial ; 1 and that’s good Gaelic, 
— Here is to the Countess Isabelle of Croye, and 
a better husband to her than Camporbasso, who is 
a base Italian cullion ! — And now, Andrew Arnot, 
what said the muleteer to this yeoman of thine ? ” 

“ Why he told him in secrecy, if it please your 
Lordship,” continued Arnot, “ that these two ladies 
whom he had presently before convoyed up to 
the Castle in the close litters, were great ladies, 
who had been living in secret at his master’s house 
for some days, and that the King had visited them 
more than once very privately, and had done them 
great honour ; and that they had fled up to the 
Castle, as he believed, for fear of the Count de 
Cr&vecoeur, the Duke of Burgundy’s ambassador, 
whose approach was just announced by an advanced 
courier.” # 

“ Ay, Andrew, come you there to me ? ” said 
Guthrie ; “ then I will be sworn it was the Coun- 
tess whose voice I heard singing to the lute, as I 
came even now through the inner court — ■ the sound 
came from the hay-windows of the Dauphin’s Tower ; 
and such melody was there as no one ever heard 
before in the Castle of Plessis of the Park. By 
my faith, I thought it was the music of the Fairy. 
Melusina’s making. There I stood — though I knew 
your board was covered, and that you were all im- 
patient — there I stood, like ” 

“Like an ass, Johnny Guthrie,” said his com- 
mander ; “ thy long nose smelling the dinner, thy 
long ears hearing the music, and thy short discre- 
tion not enabling thee to decide which of them thou 
didst prefer. — Hark ! is not that the Cathedral bell 

1 “ Cut a tale with a drink ; ” an expression used when a man 
preaches over his liquor, as bons vivants say in England. 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


119 

tolling to vespers? — Sure it cannot be that time 
yet ? — The mad old sexton has toll’d even-song an 
hour too soon.” 

“ In faith, the bell rings but too justly the hour,” 
said Cunningham ; “ yonder the sun is sinking on 
the west side of the fair plain.” 

“ Ay,” said the Lord Crawford, “ is it even so ? 
— Well, lads, we must live within compass — Fair 
and soft goes far — slow fire makes sweet malt — to 
be merry and wise is a sound proverb. — One other 
rouse to the weal of old Scotland, and then each 
man to his duty.” 

The parting-cup was emptied, and the guests dis- 
missed — the stately old Baron taking the Balafr^’s 
arm, under pretence of giving him some instructions 
concerning his nephew, but, perhaps, in reality, 
lest his own lofty pace should seem in the public 
eye less steady than became his rank and high com- 
mand. A serious countenance, did he bear as he 
passed through the two courts which separated his 
lodging from the festal chamber, and solemn as the 
gravity of a hogshead was the farewell caution, with 
which he prayed Ludovic to attend his nephew’s 
motions, especially in the matters of wenches and 
wine-cups. 

Meanwhile, not a word that was spoken con- 
cerning the beautiful Countess Isabelle had escaped 
the young Durward, who, conducted into a small 
cabin, which he was to share with his uncle’s page, 
made his new and lowly abode the scene of much 
high musing. The reader will easily imagine that 
the young soldier should build a fine romance on 
such a foundation as the supposed, or rather the 
assumed, identification of the Maiden of the Turret, 
to whose lay he had listened with so much interest, 


20 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


and the fair cup-bearer of Maitre Pierre, with a 
fugitive Countess, of rank and wealth, flying from 
the pursuit of a hated lover, the favourite of an 
oppressive guardian, who abused his feudal power. 
There was an interlude in Quentin’s vision con- 
cerning Maitre Pierre, who seemed to exercise such 
authority even over the formidable officer from whose 
hands he had that day, with much difficulty, made 
his escape. At length the youth’s reveries, which 
had been respected by little Will Harper, the com- 
panion of his cell, were broken in upon by the 
return of his uncle, who commanded Quentin to bed, 
that he might arise betimes in the morning, and 
attend him to his Majesty’s antechamber, to which 
he was called by his hour of duty, along with five 
of his comrades. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE ENVOY. 

Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France ; 

For ere thou canst report I will be there, 

The thunder of my cannon shall be heard — 

So, hence ! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath. 

King John. 


Had sloth been a temptation by which Durward 
was easily beset, the noise with which the caserne of 
the guards resounded after the first toll of primes, 
had certainly banished the siren from his couch ; 
but the discipline of his father’s tower, and of the 
convent of Aberbrothick, had taught him to start 
with the dawn ; and he did on his clothes gaily, 
amid the sounding of bugles and the clash of ar- 
mour, which announced the change of the vigilant 
guards — some of whom were returning to barracks 
after their nightly duty, whilst some were march- 
ing out to that of the morning — and others, again, 
amongst whom was his uncle, were arming for 
immediate attendance upon the person of Louis. 
Quentin Durward soon put on, with the feelings of 
so young a man on such an occasion, the splendid 
dress and arms appertaining to his new situation ; 
and his uncle, who looked with great accuracy and 
interest to see that he was completely fitted out in 
every respect, did not conceal his satisfaction at the 
improvement which had been thus made in his 
nephew’s appearance. “ If thou dost prove as faith- 


122 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


ful and bold as thou art well-favoured, I shall have 
in thee one of the handsomest and best esquires in 
the Guard, which cannot but be an honour to thy 
mother’s family. Follow me to the presence-cham- 
ber ; and see thou keep close at my shoulder.” 

So saying, he took up a partisan, large, weighty, 
and beautifully inlaid and ornamented, and direct- 
ing his nephew to assume a lighter weapon of a simi- 
lar description, they proceeded to the inner-court of 
the palace, where their comrades, who were to form 
the guard of the interior apartments, were already 
drawn up, and under arms — the squires each stand- 
ing behind their masters, to whom they thus formed 
a second rank. Here were also in attendance many 
yeomen -prickers, with gallant horses and noble 
dogs, on which Quentin looked with such inquisi- 
tive delight, that his uncle was obliged more than 
once to remind him that the animals were not there 
for his private amusement, but for the King’s, who 
had a strong passion for the chase, one of the few 
inclinations which he indulged, even when coming 
in competition with his course of policy ; being so 
strict a protector of the game in the royal forests, 
that it was currently said, you might kill a man 
with greater impunity than a stag. 

On a signal given, the Guards were put into 
motion by the command of Le Balafrd, who acted 
as officer upon the occasion ; and, after some minu- 
tiae of word and signal, which all served to show 
the extreme and punctilious jealousy with which 
their duty was performed, they marched into the 
hall of audience, where the King was immediately 
expected. , 

New as Quentin was to scenes of splendour, the 
effect of that which was now before him rather 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


123 


disappointed the expectations which he had formed 
of the brilliancy of a Court. There were household 
officers, indeed, richly attired ; there were guards 
gallantly armed, and there were domestics of various 
degrees : But he saw none of the ancient counsel- 
lors of the kingdom, none of the high officers of the 
crown, heard none of the names which in those days 
sounded an alarum to chivalry ; saw none either of 
those generals or leaders, who, possessed of the full 
prime of manhood, were the strength of France, or 
of the more youthful and fiery nobles, those early 
aspirants after honour, who were her pride. The 
jealous habits — the reserved manners — the deep 
and artful policy of the King, had estranged this 
splendid circle from the throne, and they were only 
called around it upon certain stated and formal occa- 
sions, when they went reluctantly, and returned 
joyfully, as the animals in the fable are supposed to 
have approached and left the den of the lion. 

The very few persons who seemed to be there in 
the character of counsellors, were mean-looking men, 
whose countenances sometimes expressed sagacity, 
but whose manners showed they were called into a 
sphere for which their previous education and habits 
had qualified them but indifferently. One or two 
persons, however, did appear to Durward to possess 
a more noble mien, and the strictness of the present 
duty was not such as to prevent his uncle com- 
municating the names of those whom he thus 
distinguished. 

With the Lord Crawford, who was in attendance, 
dressed in the rich habit of his office, and holding 
a leading staff of silver in his hand, Quentin, as well 
as the reader, was already acquainted. Among 
others who seemed of quality, the most remarkable 


I 


124 QUENTIN DURWAKD. 

was the Count de Dunois, the son of that celebrated 
Dunois, known by the name of the Bastard of Or- 
leans, who, fighting under the banner of Jeanne 
d’Arc, acted such a distinguished part in liberating 
France from the English yoke. His son well sup- 
ported the high renown which had descended to 
him from such an honoured source ; and, notwith- 
standing his connexion with the royal family, and 
his hereditary popularity both with the nobles and 
the people, Dunois had, upon all occasions, mani- 
fested such an open, frank loyalty of character, that 
he seemed to have escaped all suspicion, even on 
the part of the jealous Louis, who loved to see him 
near his person, and sometimes even called him to 
his councils. Although accounted complete in all 
the exercises of chivalry, and possessed of much of 
the character of what was then termed a perfect 
knight, the person of the Count was far from being 
a model of romantic beauty. He was under the 
common size, though very strongly built, and his 
legs rather curved outwards, into that make which 
is more convenient for horseback, than elegant in 
a pedestrian. His shoulders were broad, his hair 
black, his complexion swarthy, his arms remarkably 
long and nervous. The features of his countenance 
were irregular, even to ugliness ; yet, after all, there 
was an air of conscious worth and nobility about 
the Count de Dunois, which stamped, at the first 
glance, the character of the high-born nobleman, and 
the undaunted soldier. His mien was bold and 
upright, his step free and manly, and the harshness 
of his countenance was dignified by a glance like an 
eagle, and a frown like a lion. His dress was a 
hunting suit, rather sumptuous than gay, and he 
acted on most occasions as Grand Huntsman, though 

7 o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 125 

we are not inclined to believe that he actually held 
the office. 

Upon the arm of his relation Dunois, walking 
with a step so slow and melancholy, that he seemed 
to rest on his kinsman and supporter, came Louis 
Duke of Orleans, the first prince of the blood royal, 
(afterwards King, by the name of Louis XII.,) and 
to whom the guards and attendants rendered their 
homage as such. The jealously-watched object of 
Louis’s suspicions, this Prince, who, failing the 
King’s offspring, was heir to the kingdom, was not 
suffered to absent himself from Court, and, while 
residing there, was alike denied employment and 
countenance. The dejection which his degraded 
and almost captive state naturally impressed on the 
deportment of this unfortunate Prince, was at this 
moment greatly increased, by his consciousness that 
the King meditated, with respect to him, one of 
the most cruel and unjust actions which a tyrant 
could commit, by compelling him to give his hand 
to the Princess Joan of France, the younger daugh- 
ter of Louis, to whom he had been contracted 
in infancy, but whose deformed person rendered 
the insisting upon such an agreement an act of 
abominable rigour. 

The exterior of this unhappy Prince was in no 
respect distinguished by personal advantages ; and 
in mind, he was of a gentle, mild, and beneficent 
disposition, qualities which were visible even through 
the veil of extreme dejection, with which his nat- 
ural character was at present obscured. Quentin 
observed that the Duke studiously avoided even 
looking at the Royal Guards, and when he returned 
their salute, that he kept his eyes bent on the 
ground, as if he feared the King’s jealousy might 


126 


QUENTIN DURWAPJ). 


have construed that gesture of ordinary courtesy, as 
arising from the purpose of establishing a separate 
and personal interest among them. 

Very different was the conduct of the proud Car- 
dinal and Prelate, John of Balue, the favourite min- 
ister of Louis for the time, whose rise and character 
bore as close a resemblance to that of Wolsey, as 
the difference betwixt the crafty and politic Louis, 
and the headlong and rash Henry VIII. of England, 
would permit. The former had raised his minister 
from the lowest rank, to the dignity, or at least 
to the emoluments, of Grand Almoner of France, 
loaded him with benefices, and obtained for him the 
hat of a Cardinal ; and although he was too cautious 
to repose in the ambitious Balue the unbounded 
power and trust which Henry placed in Wolsey, 
yet he was more influenced by him than by any 
other of his avowed counsellors. The Cardinal, 
accordingly, had not escaped the error incidental to 
those who are suddenly raised to power from an 
obscure situation, for he entertained a strong per- 
suasion, dazzled doubtless by the suddenness of his 
elevation, that his capacity was equal to intermed- 
dling with affairs of every kind, even those most 
foreign to his profession and studies. Tall and 
ungainly in his person, he affected gallantry and 
admiration of the fair sex, although his manners 
rendered his pretensions absurd, and his profession 
marked them as indecorous. Some male or female 
flatterer had, in evil hour, possessed him with the 
idea that there was much beauty of contour in a 
pair of huge substantial legs, which he had derived 
from his father, a car-man of Limoges, or, according 
to other authorities, a miller of Verdun ; and with 
this idea he had become so infatuated, that he 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


27 


always had his cardinal’s robes a little looped up 
on one side, that the sturdy proportion of his limbs 
might not escape observation. As he swept through 
the stately apartment in his crimson dress and rich 
cope, he stopped repeatedly to look at the arms and 
appointments of the cavaliers on guard, asked them 
several questions in an authoritative tone, and took 
upon him to censure some of them for what he 
termed irregularities of discipline, in language to 
which these experienced soldiers dared no reply, 
although it was plain they listened to it with im- 
patience and with contempt. 

“ Is the King aware,” said Dunois to the Car- 
dinal, “ that the Burgundian Envoy is peremptory 
in demanding an audience ? ” 

“He is,” answered the Cardinal ; “and here, as I 
think, comes the all-sufficient Oliver Dain , 1 to let 
us know the royal pleasure.” 

As he spoke, a remarkable person, who then di- 
vided the favour of Louis with the proud Cardinal 
himself, entered from the inner apartment, but 
without any of that important and consequential 
demeanour which marked the full-blown dignity of 
the churchman. On the contrary, this was a little, 
pale, meagre man, whose black silk jerkin and hose, 
without either coat, cloak, or cassock, formed a 
dress ill qualified to set off to advantage a very 
ordinary person. He carried a silver basin in his 
hand, and a napkin flung over his arm indicated 
his menial capacity. His visage was penetrating 
and quick, although he endeavoured to banish such 

1 Oliver’s name, or nickname, was Le Diable, which was be- 
stowed on him by public hatred, in exchange for Le Daim, or Le 
Dain. He was originally the King’s barber, but afterwards a 
favourite counsellor. 


128 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


expression from his features, by keeping his eyes 
fixed on the ground, while, with the stealthy and 
quiet pace of a cat, he seemed modestly rather to 
glide than to walk through the apartment. But 
though modesty may easily obscure worth, it can- 
not hide court-favour ; and all attempts to steal un- 
perceived through the presence-chamber were vain, 
.on the part of one known to have such possession 
of the King’s ear, as had been attained by his cele- 
brated barber and groom of the chamber, Oliver le 
Dain, called sometimes Oliver le Mauvais, and 
sometimes Oliver le Diable, epithets derived from 
the unscrupulous cunning with which he assisted 
in the execution of the schemes of his master’s 
tortuous policy. At present he spoke earnestly for 
a few moments with the Count de Dunois, who in- 
stantly left the chamber, while the tonsor glided 
quietly back towards the royal apartment whence 
he had issued, every one giving place to him; which 
civility he only acknowledged by the most humble 
inclination of the body, excepting in a very few 
instances, where he made one or two persons the 
subject of envy to all the other courtiers by whis- 
pering a single word in their ear ; and at the same 
time muttering something of the duties of his place, 
he escaped from their replies, as well as from the 
eager solicitations of those who wished to attract 
his notice. Ludovic Lesly had the good fortune 
to be one of the individuals who, on the present 
occasion, was favoured by Oliver with a single 
word, to assure him that his matter was fortunately 
terminated. 

Presently afterwards, he had another proof of the 
same agreeable tidings ; for Quentin’s old acquaint- 
ance, Tristan l’Hermite, the Provost-Marshal of the 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


129 


Royal Household, entered the apartment, and came 
straight to the place where Le Balafffi was posted. 
This formidable officer’s uniform, which was very 
rich, had only the effect of making his sinister 
countenance and bad mien more strikingly remark- 
able, and the tone which he meant for conciliatory, 
was like nothing so much as the growling of a bear. 
The import of his words, however, was more ami- 
cable than the voice in which they were pronounced. 
He regretted the mistake which had fallen between 
them on the preceding day, and observed it was 
owing to the Sieur Le Balafrfi’s nephew not wearing 
the uniform of his corps, or announcing himself as 
belonging to it, which had led him into the error 
for which he now asked forgiveness. 

Ludovic Lesly made the necessary reply, and as 
soon as Tristan had turned away, observed to his 
nephew, that they had now the distinction of having 
a mortal enemy from henceforward in the person of 
this dreaded officer. “ But we are above his vole e — 
a soldier,” said he, xt who does his duty, may laugh 
at the Provost-Marshal.” 

Quentin could not help being of his uncle’s 
opinion, for, as Tristan parted from them, it was 
with the look of angry defiance which the bear 
casts upon the hunter whose spear has wounded 
him. Indeed, even when less strongly moved, the 
sullen eye of this official expressed a malevolence of 
purpose which made men shudder to meet his glance ; 
and the thrill of the young Scot was the deeper and 
more abhorrent, that he seemed to himself still to 
feel on his shoulders the grasp of the two death- 
doing functionaries of this fatal officer. 

Meanwhile, Oliver, after he had prowled around 
the room in the stealthy manner which we have 



QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3i 


Le Balafrd bowed to the ground', and re-assumed 
his erect military position, as one who would show 
by his demeanour his promptitude to act in the 
King’s quarrel or defence. Quentin, in the mean- 
time, recovered from his first surprise, studied the 
King’s appearance more attentively, and was sur- 
prised to find how differently he now construed his 
deportment and features than he had done at their 
first interview. 

These were not much changed in exterior, for 
Louis, always a scorner of outward show, wore, on 
the present occasion, an old dark -blue hunting- 
dress, not much better than the plain burgher-suit 
of the preceding day, and garnished with a huge 
rosary of ebony, which had been sent to him by no 
less -a personage than the Grand Seignior, with an 
attestation that it had been used by a Coptic her- 
mit on Mount Lebanon, a personage of profound 
sanctity. And instead of his cap with a single 
image, he now wore a hat, the band of which was 
garnished with at least a dozen of little paltry 
figures of saints stamped in lead. But those eyes, 
which, according to Quentin’s former impression, 
only twinkled with the love of gain had, now that 
they were known to be the property of an able and 
powerful monarch, a piercing and majestic glance ; 
and those wrinkles on the brow, which he had sup- 
posed were formed during a long series of petty 
schemes of commerce, seemed now the furrows 
which sagacity had worn while toiling in medita- 
tion upon the fate of nations. 

Presently after the King’s appearance, the Prin- 
cesses of France, with the ladies of their suite, en- 
tered the apartment. With the eldest, afterwards 
married to Peter of Bourbon, and known in French 


i3 2 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


history by the name of the Lady of Beaujeau, our 
story has but little to do. She was tall, and rather 
handsome, possessed eloquence, talent, and much 
of her father’s sagacity, who reposed great confi- 
dence in her, and loved her as well perhaps as he 
loved any one. 

The younger sister, the unfortunate Joan, the 
destined bride of the Duke of Orleans, advanced 
timidly by the side of her sister, conscious of a total 
want of those external qualities which women are 
most desirous of possessing, or being thought to 
possess. She was pale, thin, and sickly in her com- 
plexion ; her shape visibly bent to ope side, and her 
gait so unequal that she might be calledHame. A 
fine set of teeth, and eyes which were expressive 
of melancholy, softness, and resignation, with a 
quantity of light brown locks, were the only re- 
deeming points which flattery itself could have dared 
to number, to counteract the general homeliness of 
her face and figure. To complete the picture, it 
was easy to remdVk, from the Princess’s negligence 
in dress, and the timidity of her manner, that she 
had an unusual and distressing consciousness of her 
own plainness of appearance, and did not dare to 
make any of those attempts to mend by manners or 
by art what nature had left amiss, or in any other 
way to exert a power of pleasing. The King (who 
loved her not) stepped hastily to her as she entered. 
— “ How now ! ” he said, “ our world-contemning 
daughter — Are you robed for a hunting-party, or 
for the convent, this morning ? Speak — answer.” 

“For which your highness pleases, sire,” said the 
Princess, scarce raising her voice above her breath. 

“ Ay, doubtless, you would persuade me it is 
your desire to quit the Court, Joan, and renounce 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


133 


the world and its vanities. — Ha ! maiden, wouldst 
thou have it thought that we, the first-born of Holy 
Church, would refuse our daughter to Heaven ? — 
Our Lady and Saint Martin forbid we should refuse 
the offering, were it worthy of the altar, or were thy 
vocation in truth thitherward ! ” 

So saying, the King crossed himself devoutly, 
looking, in the meantime, as appeared to Quentin, 
very like a cunning vassal, who was depreciating 
the merit of something which he was desirous to 
keep to himself, in order that he might stand ex- 
cused for not offering it to his chief or superior. 
“ Dares he thus play the hypocrite with Heaven,” 
thought Durward, “ and sport with God and the 
Saints, as he may safely do with men, who dare not 
search his nature too closely ? ” 

Louis meantime resumed, after a moment’s men- 
tal devotion — “No, fair daughter, I anci another 
know your real mind better — Ha ! fair cousin of 
Orleans, do we not ? Approach, fair sir, and lead 
this devoted vestal of ours to her dorse.” 

Orleans started when the King spoke, and has- 
tened to obey him ; but with such precipitation of 
step, and confusion, that Louis called out, “Nay, 
cousin, rein your gallantry, and look before you. — 
Why, what a headlong matter a gallant’s haste is on 
some occasions ! — You had wellnigh taken Anne’s 
hand instead of her sister’s. — Sir, must I give 
Joan’s to you myself ? ” 

The unhappy Prince looked up, and shuddered 
like a child, when forced to touch something at 
which it has instinctive horror — then making an 
effort, took the hand which the Princess neither 
gave nor yet withheld. As they stood, her cold 
damp fingers enclosed in his trembling hand, with 


134 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


the : r eyes looking, on the ground, it would have 
been difficult to say which of these two youthful 
beings was rendered more utterly miserable — the 
Duke, who felt himself fettered to the object of his 
aversion by bonds which he durst not tear asunder, 
or the unfortunate young woman, who too plainly 
saw that she was an object of abhorrence to him, 
to gain whose kindness she would willingly have 
died. 

“ And now to horse, gentlemen and ladies — We 
will ourselves lead forth our daughter of Beaujeau,” 
said the King ; “ and God’s blessing and Saint 
Hubert’s he on our morning sport ! ” 

“ I am, I fear, doomed to interrupt it, sire,” said 
the Compte de Dunois — “ the Burgundian Envoy 
is before the gates of the Castle, and demands an 
audience.” 

“ Demands an audience, Dunois ? ” replied the 
King — “Did you not answer him, as we sent you 
word by Oliver, that we were not at leisure to see 
him to-day, — and that to-morrow was the festival 
of Saint Martin, which, please Heaven, we would 
disturb by no earthly thoughts, — and that on the 
succeeding day we were designed for Amboise — 
but that we would not fail to appoint him as early 
an audience, when we returned, as our pressing 
affairs would permit ? ” 

“ All this I said,” answered Dunois ; “ but yet, 
sire ” 

“ Pasques-dien ! man, what is it that thus sticks 
in thy throat ? ” said the King. “ This Burgun- 
dian’s terms must have been hard of digestion.” 

“ Had not my duty, your Grace’s commands, and 
his character as an Envoy, restrained me,” said 
Dunois, “ he should have tried to digest them him- 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


135 


self , for, by our Lady of Orleans, I had more mind 
to have made him eat his own words, than to have 
brought them to your Majesty.” 

“Body of me, Dunois,” said the King, “it is 
strange that thou, one of the most impatient fel- 
lows alive, shouldst have so little sympathy with 
the like infirmity in our blunt and fiery cousin, 
Charles of Burgundy. Why, man, I mind his 
blustering messages no more than the towers of 
this Castle regard the whistling of the north-east 
wind, which comes from Flanders, as well as this 
brawling Envoy.” . 

“Know then, sire,” replied Dunois, “that the 
Count of Cr&vecoeur tarries below, with his retinue 
of pursuivants and trumpets, and says, that, since 
your Majesty refuses him the audience which his 
master has instructed him to demand, upon matters 
of ]^iQj)t pressing concern, he will remain there till 
midnight, and accost your Majesty at whatever hour 
you are pleased to issue from your Castle, whether 
for business, exercise, or devotion ; and that no con- 
sideration, except the use of absolute force, shall 
compel him to desist from this resolution.” 

“He is a fool,” said the King, with much com- 
posure. “Does the hot-headed Hainaulter think 
it any penance for a man of sense to remain for 
twenty-four hours quiet within the walls of his 
Castle, when he hath the affairs of a kingdom to 
occupy him ? These impatient coxcombs think that 
all men, like themselves, are miserable, save when 
in saddle and stirrup. Let the dogs be put up, and 
well looked to, gentle Dunois — We will hold coun- 
cil to-day, instead of hunting.” 

“My Liege,” answered Dunois, “you will not 
thus rid yourself of Crkvecoeur ; for his master’s 


136 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


instructions are, that if he hath not this audience 
which he demands, he shall nail his gauntlet to the 
palisades before the Castle, in token of mortal 
defiance on the part of his master, shall renounce 
the Duke’s fealty to France, and declare instant 
war.” 

4 ‘Ay,” said Louis, without any perceptible alter- 
ation of voice, but frowning until his piercing dark 
eyes became almost invisible under his shaggy eye- 
brows, “ is it even so ? — will our ancient vassal 
prove so masterful — our dear cousin treat us thus 
unkindly ? — Nay then, Dunois, we must unfold the 
Oriflamme , and cry Dennis Montjoye ! ” 

“ Marry and amen, and in a most happy hour ! ” 
said the martial Dunois ; and the guards in the hall, 
unable to resist the same impulse, stirred each upon 
his post, so as to produce a low but distinct sound 
of clashing arms. The King cast his eye proudly 
round, and, for a moment, thought and looked like 
his heroic father. 

But the excitement of the moment presently gave 
way to the host of political considerations, which, 
at that conjuncture, rendered an open breach with 
Burgundy so peculiarly perilous. Edward IV., a 
brave and victorious king, who had in his own 
person fought thirty battles, was now established on 
the throne of England, was brother to the Duchess 
of Burgundy, and it might well be supposed, waited 
but a rupture between his near connexion and 
Louis, to carry into France, through the ever-open 
gate of Calais, those arms which had been trium- 
phant in the English civil wars, and to obliterate 
the recollection of internal dissensions by that most 
popular of all occupations amongst the English, an 
invasion of France. To this consideration was added 


QUENTIN DU R WARD 


*37 


the uncertain faith of the Duke of Bretagne, and 
other weighty subjects of reflection. So that, after 
a deep pause, when Louis again spoke, although in 
the same tone, it was with an altered spirit. “ But 
God forbid,” he said, “ that aught less than neces- 
sity should make us the Most Christian King, give 
cause to the effusion of Christian blood, if any thing 
short of dishonour may avert such a calamity. We 
tender our subjects’ safety dearer than the ruffle 
which our own dignity may receive from the rude 
breath of a malapert ambassador, who hath perhaps 
exceeded the errand with which he was charged. — 
Admit the Envoy of Burgundy to our presence.” 

“ Beati pacifici ,” said the Cardinal Balue. 

“ True ; and your eminence knoweth that they 
who humble themselves shall be exalted,” added the 
King. 

The Cardinal spoke an Amen, to which few as- 
sented ; for even the pale cheek of Orleans kindled 
with shame, and Balafrd suppressed his feelings so 
little, as to let the but-end of his partisan fall heav- 
ily on the floor, — a movement of impatience for 
which he underwent a bitter reproof from the Car- 
dinal, with a lecture on the mode of handling his 
arms when in presence of the Sovereign. The King 
himself seemed unusually embarrassed at the silence 
around him. “ You are pensive, Dunois,” he said 
— “You disapprove of our giving way to this hot- 
headed Envoy.” 

“ By no means,” said Dunois ; “ I meddle not with 
matters beyond my sphere. I was but thinking of 
asking a boon of your Majesty.” 

“A boon, Dunois — what is it? — You are an 
unfrequent suitor, and may count on our favour.” 

“ I would then, your Majesty would send me to 


*38 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Evreux to regulate the clergy/’ said Dunois, with 
military frankness. 

‘‘That were indeed beyond thy sphere,” replied 
the King, smiling. 

“ I might order priests as well,” replied the Count, 
“as my Lord Bishop of Evreux, or my Lord Car- 
dinal, if he likes the title better, can exercise the 
soldiers of your Majesty’s guard.” 

The King smiled again, and more mysteriously 
while he whispered Dunois, “ The time may come 
when you and I will regulate the priests together 
— But this is for the present a good conceited 
animal of a Bishop. Ah, Dunois ! Rome, Rome 
puts him and other burdens upon us — But patience, 
cousin, and shuffle the cards, till our hand is a 
stronger one.” 1 

The flourish of trumpets in the court-yard now 
announced the arrival of the Burgundian nobleman. 
All in the presence-chamber made haste to arrange 

1 Dr. Dryasdust here remarks, that cards, said to have been 
invented in a preceding reign, for the amusement of Charles V. 
during the intervals of his mental disorder, seem speedily to have 
become common among the courtiers, since they already furnished 
Louis XT. with a metaphor. The same proverb was quoted by 
Durandarte, in the enchanted cave of Montesinos. The alleged 
origin of the invention of cards, produced one of the shrewdest 
replies I have ever heard given in evidence. It was made by the 
late Dr Gregory of Edinburgh to a counsel of great eminence at 
the Scottish bar. The Doctor’s testimony went to prove the 
insanity of the party whose mental capacity was the point at issue. 
On a cross-interrogation, he admitted that the person in question 
played admirably at whist. “And do you seriously say, doctor,” 
said the learned counsel, “ that a person having a superior capacitv 
for a game so difficult, and Avhich requires in a pre-eminent degree, 
memory, judgment, and combination, can be at the same time 
deranged in his understanding? ” — “I am no card player,” said 
the doctor, with great address, “ but I have read in history that 
cards were invented for the amusement of an insaue king ’ The 
consequences of this reply were decisive. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


139 


themselves according to their proper places of pre- 
cedence, the King and his daughters remaining in 
the centre of the assembly. 

The Count of Crkvecoeur, a renowned and undaunted 
warrior, entered the apartment ; and, contrary to the 
usage among the envoys of friendly powers, he 
appeared all armed, excepting his head, in a gorgeous 
suit of the most superb Milan armour, made of steel, 
inlaid and embossed with gold, which was wrought 
into the fantastic taste called the Arabesque. 
Around his neck, and over his polished cuirass, 
hung his master’s order of the Golden Fleece, one 
of the most honoured associations of chivalry then 
known in Christendom. A handsome page bore 
his helmet behind him, a herald preceded him, 
bearing liis letters of credence, which he offered on 
his knee to the King ; while the ambassador him- 
self paused in the midst of the hall, as if to give all 
present time to admire his lofty look, commanding 
stature, and undaunted composure of countenance 
and manner. The rest of his attendants waited in 
the antechamber, or court-yard. 

“Approach, Seignior Count de Crkvecoeur,” said 
Louis, after a moment’s glance at his commission ; 
“ we need not our Cousin’s letters of credence, either 
to introduce to us a warrior so well known, or to 
assure us of your highly deserved credit with your 
master. We trust that your fair partner, who shares 
some of our ancestral blood, is in good health. Had 
you brought her in your hand, Seignior Count, we 
might have thought you wore your armour, on this 
unwonted occasion, to maintain the superiority of 
her charms against the amorous chivalry of France. 
As it is, we cannot guess the reason of this complete 
panoply.” 


Ho 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“Sire,” replied the ambassador, “the Count of 
Cr&vecoeur must lament his misfortune, and entreat 
your forgiveness, that he cannot, on this occasion, 
reply with such humble deference as is due to the 
royal courtesy, with which your Majesty has hon- 
oured him. But, although it is only the voice of 
Philip Crkvecceur de Cordbs which speaks, the words 
which he utters must be those of his gracious Lord 
and Sovereign the Duke of Burgundy.” 

“And what has Crkvecoeur to say in the words 
of Burgundy?” said Louis, with an assumption of 
sufficient dignity. “ Yet hold — remember, that in 
this presence, Philip Crbvecoeur de Cordis speaks 
to him who is his Sovereign’s Sovereign.” 

Cr&vecoeur bowed, and then spoke aloud : — “ King 
of France, the mighty Duke of Burgundy once more 
sends you a written schedule of the wrongs and 
oppressions committed on his frontiers by your 
Majesty’s garrisons and officers ; and the first point 
of enquiry is, whether it is your Majesty’s purpose 
to make him amends for these injuries ? ” 

The King, looking slightly at the memorial which 
the herald delivered to him upon his knee, said, 
“ These matters have been already long before our 
Council. Of the injuries complained of, some are 
in requital of those sustained by my subjects, some 
are affirmed without any proof, some have been re- 
taliated by the Duke’s garrisons and soldiers ; and 
if there remain any which fall under none of those 
predicaments, we are not, as a Christian prince, averse 
to make satisfaction for wrongs actually sustained by 
our neighbour, though committed not only without 
our countenance, but against our express order.” 

“ I will convey your Majesty’s answer,” said the 
ambassador, “ to my most gracious master ; yet, let 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


141 

me say. that, as it is in no degree different from th6 
evasive replies which have already been returned to 
his just complaints, I cannot hope that it will afford 
the means of re-establishing peace and friendship 
betwixt France and Burgundy.” 

“ Be that at God’s pleasure,” said the King. “ It 
is not for dread of thy Master’s arms, but for the 
sake of peace only, that 1 return so temperate an 
answer to his injurious reproaches. Proceed with 
thine errand.” 

“My Master’s next demand,” said the ambas- 
sador, “ is, that your Majesty will cease your secret 
and underhand dealings with his towns of Ghent, 
Liege, and Malines. He requests that your Ma- 
jesty will recall the secret agents, by whose means 
the discontents of his good citizens of Flanders are 
inflamed; and dismiss from your Majesty’s domi- 
nions, or rather deliver up to the condign punish- 
ment of their liege lord, those traitorous fugitives, 
who, having fled from the scene of their machina- 
tions, have found too ready a refuge in Paris, Or- 
leans, Tours, and other French cities.” 

“ Say to the Duke of Burgundy,” replied the 
King, “ that I know of no such indirect practices 
as those with which he injuriously charges me ; that 
my subjects of France have frequent intercourse 
with the good cities of Flanders, for the purpose of 
mutual benefit by free traffic, which it would be as 
much contrary to the Duke’s interest as -mine to 
interrupt ; and that many Flemings have residence 
in my kingdom, and enjoy the protection of my laws, 
for the same purpose ; but none, to our knowledge, 
for those of treason or mutiny against the Duke. 
Proceed with your message — you have heard my 
answer.” 


i 4 2 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

• “ As formerly, Sire, with pain,” replied the Count 
of Cr&vecoeur ; “ it not being of that direct or ex- 
plicit nature which the Duke, my master, will accept, 
in atonement for a long train of secret machinations, 
not the less certain, though now disavowed by your 
Majesty. But I proceed with my message. The 
Duke of Burgundy further requires the King of 
Trance to send back to his dominions without delay, 
and under a secure safeguard, the persons of Isabelle 
Countess of Croye, and of her relation and guardian 
the Countess Hameline, of the same family, in re- 
spect the said Countess Isabelle, being, by the law 
of the country, and the feudal tenure of her estates, 
the ward of the said Duke of Burgundy, hath fled 
from his dominions, and from the charge which he, 
as a careful guardian, was willing to extend over 
her, and is here maintained in secret by the King 
of France, and by him fortified in her contumacy to 
the Duke, her natural lord and guardian, contrary 
to the laws of God and man, as they ever have been 
acknowledged in civilized Europe. — Once more I 
pause for your Majesty’s reply.” 

“ You did well, Count de Crbvecoeur,” said Louis, 
scornfully, “ to begin your embassy at an early 
hour ; for if it be your purpose to call on me to 
account for the flight of every vassal whom your 
master’s heady passion may have driven from his 
dominions, the bead-roll may last till sunset. Who 
can affirm that these ladies are in my dominions ? 
who can presume to say, if it be so, that I have 
either countenanced their flight hither, or have re- 
ceived them with offers of protection ? Nay, who 
is it will assert, that, if they are in France, their 
place of retirement is within my knowledge ? ” 

“ Sire,” said Crkvecoeur, “ may it please your 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


M3 


Majesty, I was provided with a witness on this 
subject — one who beheld these fugitive ladies in 
the inn called the Fleur-de-Lys, not far from this 
Castle — one who saw your Majesty in their com- 
pany, though under the unworthy disguise of a bur- 
gess of Tours — one who received from them, in 
your royal presence, messages and letters to their 
friends in Flanders — all which he conveyed to the 
hand and ear of the Duke of Burgundy.” 

“Bring him forward,” said the King; “place 
the man before my face who dares maintain these 
palpable falsehoods.” 

“You speak in triumph, Sire; for you are well 
aware that this witness no longer exists. When 
he lived, he was called Zamet Magraubin, by birth 
one of those Bohemian wanderers. He w T as yester- 
day, as I have learned, executed by a party of your 
Majesty's Provost-Marshal, to prevent, doubtless, 
his standing here, to verify what he said of this 
matter to the Duke of Burgundy, in presence of his 
Council, and of me, Philip Cr&vecoeur de Cordis ” 

“ Now, by our Lady of Embrun !” said the King, 
“ so gross are these accusations, and so free of con- 
sciousness am I of aught that approaches them, that, 
by the honour of a King, I laugh, rather than am 
wroth at them. My Provost-guard daily put to 
death, as is their duty, thieves and vagabonds ; and 
is my crown to be slandered with whatever these 
thieves and vagabonds may have said to our hot 
cousin of Burgundy and his wise counsellors ? I 
pray you, tell .iny kind cousin, if he loves such com- 
panions, he had best keep them in his own estates ; 
for here they are like to meet short shrift and a 
tight cord.” 

“ My master needs no such subjects, Sir King/’ 


144 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


answered the Count, in a tone more disrespectful 
than he had yet permitted himself to make use of ; 
“ for the noble Duke uses not to enquire of witches, 
wandering Egyptians, or others, upon the destiny 
and fate of his neighbours and allies.” 

“We have had patience enough, and to spare,” 
said the King, interrupting him ; “ and since thy 
sole errand here seems to be for the purpose of in- 
sult, we will send some one in our name to the 
Duke of Burgundy — convinced, in thus demeaning 
thyself towards us, thou hast exceeded thy com- 
mission, whatever that may have been.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Crevecceur, “ I have not 
yet acquitted myself of it. — Hearken, Louis of 
Valois, King of France — Hearken, nobles and gen- 
tlemen, who may he present — Hearken, all good 
and true men — And thou, Toison d’Or,” addressing 
the herald, “ make proclamation after me. — I, 
Philip Crevecceur of Cordks, Count of the Empire, 
and Knight of the honourable and princely Order 
of the Golden Fleece, in the name of the most 
puissant Lord and Prince, Charles, by the grace 
of God, Duke of Burgundy and Lotharingia, of 
Brabant and Limbourg, of Luxembourg and of 
Gueldres ; Earl of Flanders and of Artois ; Count 
Palatine of Hainault, of Holland, Zealand, Namur, 
and Zutphen ; Marquis of the Holy Empire ; Lord 
of Friezeland, Salines, and Malines, do give you, 
Louis, King of France, openly to know, that you 
having refused to remedy the various griefs, wrongs, 
and offences, done and wrought by you, or by and 
through your aid, suggestion, and instigation, against 
the said Duke and his loving subjects, he, by my 
mouth, renounces all allegiance and fealty towards 
your crown and dignity — pronounces you false and 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


MS 


faithless ; and defies you as a Prince, and as a man. 
Thmje lies my gage, in evidence of what I have said.” 
y'So saying, he plucked the gauntlet off his right 
hand, and flung it down on the floor of the hall. 

Until this last climax of audacity, there had been 
a deep silence in the royal apartment during the 
extraordinary scene; but no sooner had the clash 
of the gauntlet, when cast down, been echoed by 
the deep voice of Toison d’Or, the Burgundian 
herald, with the ejaculation, Yive Bourgogne ! ” 
than there was a general tumult. While Dunois, 
Orleans, old Lord Crawford, and one or two others, 
whose rank authorized their interference, contended 
which should lift up the gauntlet, the others in 
the hall exclaimed, “ Strike him down ! Cut him 
to pieces ! Comes he here to insult the King of 
Prance in his own palace !” 

But the King appeased the tumult by exclaim- 
ing, in a voice like thunder, which overawed and 
silenced every other sound, “ Silence, my lieges ! 
lay not a hand on the man, not a finger on the gage ! 
— And you, Sir Count, of what is your life com- 
posed, or how is it warranted, that you thus place it 
on the cast of a die so perilous ? Or is your Duke 
made of a different metal from other princes, since 
he thus asserts his pretended quarrel in a manner 
so unusual ? ” 

“ He is indeed framed of a different and more 
noble metal than the other princes of Europe,” said 
the undaunted Count of Crkvecceur ; “ for, when 
not one of them dared to give shelter to you — to 
you — I say, King Louis — when you were yet only 
Dauphin, an exile from France, and pursued by the 
whole bitterness of your father’s revenge, and all 
the power of his kingdom, you were received and 


146 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


protected like a brother by my noble master, whose 
generosity of disposition you have so grossly mis- 
used^ Farewell, Sire, my mission is discharged.’’ 
^5o saying, the Count de Crkvecoeur left the apart- 
ment abruptly, and without farther leave-taking. 

“After him — after him — take up the gauntlet 
and after him ! ” said the King. — “I mean not you, 
Dunois, nor you, my Lord of Crawford, who, me- 
thinks, may be too old for such hot frays ; nor you, 
Cousin of Orleans, w T ho are too young for them. — 
My Lord Cardinal — my Lord Bishop of Auxerre — 
it is your holy office to make peace among princes ; 
— do you lift the gauntlet, and remonstrate with 
Count Crkvecoeur on the sin he has committed, in 
thus insulting a great Monarch in his own Court, 
and forcing us to bring the miseries of war upon 
his kingdom and that of his neighbour.” 

Upon this direct personal appeal, the Cardinal 
Balue proceeded to lift the gauntlet, with such pre- 
caution as one would touch an adder, — so great was 
apparently his aversion to this symbol of war, — and 
presently left the royal apartment to hasten after 
the challenger. 

Louis paused and looked round the circle of his 
courtiers, most of whom, except such as we have 
already distinguished, being men of low birth, and 
raised to their rank in the King’s household for 
other gifts than courage or feats of arms, looked 
pale on each other, and had obviously received an 
unpleasant impression from the scene which had 
been just acted. Louis gazed on them with con- 
tempt, and then said aloud, “ Although the Count 
of Crevecoeur be presumptuous and overweening, it 
must be confessed that in him the Duke of Bur- 
gundy hath as bold a servant as ever bore message 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


*47 


for a prince. I would I knew where to find as 
faithful an Envoy to carry back my answer.” 

“ You do your French nobles injustice, Sire,” said 
Dunois; “not one of them but would carry a defi- 
ance to Burgundy on the point of his sword.” 

“ And, Sire,” said old Crawford, “ you wrong 
also the Scottish gentlemen who serve you. I, or 
any of my followers, being of meet rank, would not 
hesitate a moment to call yonder proud Count to a 
reckoning ; my own arm is yet strong enough for the 
purpose, if I have but your Majesty’s permission.” 

“ But your Majesty,” continued Dunois, “ will 
employ us in no service through which we may 
win honour to ourselves, to your Majesty, or to 
France.” 

“ Say, rather,” said the King, “ that I will not 
give way, Dunois, to the headlong impetuosity, 
which, on some punctilio of chivalry, would wreck 
yourselves, the throne, France, and all. There is 
not one of you who knows not how precious every 
hour of peace is at this moment, when so necessary 
to heal the wounds of a distracted country ; yet 
there is not one of you who would not rush into 
war on account of the tale of a wandering gipsy, or 
of some errant demosel, whose reputation, perhaps, 
is sparce higher. — Here comes the Cardinal, and 
we trust with more pacific tidings. — How now, my 
Lord — have you brought the Count to reason and 
to temper?” 

“ Sire,” said Balue, “ my task hath been diffi- 
cult. I put it to yonder proud Count, how he dared 
to use towards your Majesty, the presumptuous 
reproach with which his audience had broken up^ 
and which must be understood as proceeding, not 
from his master, but from his own insolence, and as 


148 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


placing him therefore in your Majesty’s discretion, 
for what penalty you might think proper.” 

“You said right,” replied the King; “and what 
was his answer ? ” 

“ The Count,” continued the Cardinal, “ had at 
that moment his foot in the stirrup, ready to mount ; 
and, on hearing my expostulation, he turned his 
head without altering his position. ‘Had I,’ said 
he, ‘ been fifty leagues distant, and had heard by 
report that a question vituperative of my Prince 
had been asked by the King of France, I had, even 
at that distance, instantly mounted, and returned 
to disburden my mind of the answer which I gave 
him but now.’ ” 

“ I said, sirs,” said the King, turning around, 
without any show of angry emotion, “ that in the 
Count Philip of Crkvecoeur, our cousin the Duke 
possesses as worthy a servant as ever rode at a 
prince’s right hand. But you prevailed with him 
to stay ? ” 

“ To stay for twenty-four hours ; and in the 
meanwhile to receive again his gage of defiance,” 
said the Cardinal : “ he has dismounted at the 
Fleur-de-Lys.” 

“See that he be nobly attended and cared for, 
at our charges,” said the King ; “ such a servant is 
a jewel in a prince’s crown. — Twenty-four hours ? ” 
he added, muttering to himself, and looking as if 
he were stretching his eyes to see into futurity ; 
“ twenty-four hours ? — ’tis of the shortest. Yet 
twenty-four hours, ably and skilfully employed, may 
be worth a year in the hand of indolent or incapable 
agents. — Well. — To the forest — to the forest, 
my gallant lords ! — Orleans, my fair kinsman, lay 
aside that modesty, though it becomes you ; mind 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


149 


not my Joan’s coyness. The Loire may as soon 
avoid mingling with the Cher, as she from favour- 
ing your suit, or you from preferring it,” he added, 
as the unhappy prince moved slowly on after his 
betrothed bride. “ And now for your boar-spears, 
gentlemen ; for Allegre, my pricker, hath harboured 
one that will try both dog and man. — Dunois, 
lend me your spear, — take mine, it is too weighty 
for me ; but when did you complain of such a fault 
in your lance ? — To horse — to horse, gentlemen.’' 

And all the chase rode on. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE BOAR-HUNT. 


I will converse with unrespective boys 
And iron-witted fools. None are for me 
That look into me with suspicious eyes. 

King Richard. 


All the experience which the Cardinal had been 
able to collect of his master’s disposition, did not, 
upon the present occasion, prevent his falling into 
a great error of policy. His vanity induced him to 
think that he had been more successful in pre- 
vailing upon the Count of Crfevecoeur to remain at 
Tours, than any other moderator whom the King 
might have employed, would, in all * probability, 
have been. And as he was well aware of the im- 
portance which Louis attached to the postponement 
of a war with the Duke of Burgundy, he could not 
help showing that he conceived himself to have 
rendered the King great and acceptable service. 
He pressed nearer to the King’s person than he 
was wont to do, and endeavoured to engage him in 
conversation on the events of the morning. 

This was injudicious in more respects than one ; 
for princes love not to see their subjects approach 
them with a air conscious of deserving, and thereby 
seeming desirous to extort acknowledgment and 
recompense for their services ; and Louis, the most 
jealous monarch that ever lived, was peculiarly 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


* 5 * 

averse and inaccessible to any one who seemed 
either to presume upon service rendered, or to pry 
into his secrets. 

Yet, hurried away, as the most cautious some- 
times are, by the self-satisfied humour of the mo- 
ment, the Cardinal continued to ride on the King’s 
right hand, turning the discourse, whenever it was 
possible, upon Crhvecceur and his embassy ; which, 
although it might be the matter at that moment 
most in the King’s thoughts, was nevertheless pre- 
cisely that which he was least willing to converse 
on. At length Louis, who had listened to him with 
attention, yet without having returned any answer 
which could tend to prolong the conversation, signed 
to Dunois, who rode at no great distance, to come up 
on the other side of his horse. 

“ We came hither for sport and exercise,” said he, 
“but the reverend Father here would have us hold 
a council of state.” 

“ I hope your Highness will excuse my assis- 
tance,” said Dunois ; “ I am born to fight the battles 
of France, and have heart and hand for that, but 
I have no head for her councils.” 

“ My Lord Cardinal hath a head turned for 
nothing else, Dunois,” answered Louis ; “ he hath 
confessed Crbvecoeur at the Castle-gate, and he hath 
communicated to us his whole shrift — Said you not 
the vihole ? ” he continued, with an emphasis on the 
word, and a glance at the Cardinal, which shot from 
betwixt his long dark eyelashes, as a dagger gleams 
when it leaves the scabbard. 

The Cardinal trembled, as, endeavouring to 
reply to the King’s jest, he said, “ That though his 
order were obliged to conceal the secrets of their 
penitents in general, there was no sigillum confes - 


152 QUENTIN DU R WARD. 

sionis, which could not be melted at his Majesty’s 
breath.” 

“ And as his Eminence,” said the King, “ is ready 
to communicate the secrets of others to us, he 
naturally expects that we should be equally commu- 
nicative to him ; and, in order to get upon this 
reciprocal footing, he is very reasonably desirous to 
know if these two ladies of Croye he actually in our 
territories. We are sorry we cannot indulge his 
curiosity, not ourselves knowing in what precise 
place errant damsels, disguised princesses, distressed 
countesses, may lie leaguer within our dominions, 
which are, we thank God and our Lady of Embrun, 
rather too extensive for us to answer easily his 
Eminence’s most reasonable enquiries. But suppos- 
ing they were with us, what say you, Dunois, to our 
cousin’s peremptory demand ? ” 

“I will answer you, my Liege, if you will tell 
me in sincerity, whether you want war or peace,” 
replied Dunois, with a frankness which, while it 
arose out of his own native openness and intrepi- 
dity of character, made him from time to time a 
considerable favourite with Louis, who, like all 
astucious persons, was as desirous of looking into 
the hearts of others, as of concealing his own. 

“By my halidome,” said he, “I should be as 
well contented as thyself, Dunois, to tell thee my 
purpose, did I myself but know it exactly. But 
say I declared for war, what should I do with this 
beautiful and wealthy young heiress, supposing her 
to be in my dominions ?” 

“ Bestow her in marriage on one of your own 
gallant followers, who has a heart to love and an 
arm to protect her,” said Dunois. 

“ Upon thyself, ha ! ” said the King. “ Pasques- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


J 53 

dim! thou art more politic than I took thee for 
with all thy bluntness.” 

“ Nay, Sire,” answered Dunois, “ I am aught 
except politic. By our Lady of Orleans, I come 
to the point at once, as I ride my horse at the ring. 
Your Majesty owes the house of Orleans at least 
one happy marriage.” 

“And I will pay it, Count. Pasques-dieu, I will 
pay it ! — See you not yonder fair couple ? ” 

The King pointed to the unhappy Duke of Or- 
leans and the Princess, who, neither daring to 
remain at a greater distance from the King, nor in 
his sight appear separate from each other, were 
riding side by side, yet with an interval of two or 
three yards betwixt them, a space which timidity 
on the one side, and aversion on the other, prevented 
them from diminishing, while neither dared to 
increase it. 

Dunois looked in the direction of the King’s sig- 
nal, and as the situation of his unfortunate relative 
and the destined bride reminded him of nothing so 
much as of two dogs, which, forcibly linked to- 
gether, remain nevertheless as widely separated as 
the length of their collars will permit, he could not 
help shaking his head, though he ventured not on 
any other reply to the hypocritical tyrant. Louis 
seemed to guess his thoughts. 

“ It will be a peaceful and quiet household they 
will keep — not much disturbed with children, I 
should augur . 1 But these are not always a blessing.” 

1 Here the King touches on the very purpose for which he 
pressed on the match with such tyrannic severity, which was, 
that as the Princess’s personal deformity admitted little chance 
of its being fruitful, the branch of Orleans, which was next 
in succession to the crown, might be, by the want of heirs, 
weakened or extinguished. In a letter to the Compte de Dam 


154 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


It was, perhaps, the recollection of his own filial 
ingratitude that made the King pause as he uttered 
the last reflection, and which converted the sneer 
that trembled on his lip into something resembling 
an expression of contrition. But he instantly pro- 
ceeded in another tone. 

“Frankly, my Dunois, much as I revere the holy 
sacrament of matrimony,” (here he crossed himself,) 
“ I would rather the house of Orleans raised for me 
such gallant soldiers as thy father and thyself, who 
share the blood-royal of France without claiming 
its rights, than that the country should be torn to 
pieces, like to England, by wars arising from the 
rivalry of legitimate candidates for the crown. The 
lion should never have more than one cub.” 

Dunois sighed and was silent, conscious that con- 
tradicting his arbitrary Sovereign might well hurt 
his kinsman’s interests, but could do him no ser- 
vice ; yet he could not forbear adding, in the next 
moment, 

“ Since your Majesty has alluded to the birth of 
my father, I must needs own, that, setting the frailty 
of his parents on one side, he might be termed hap- 
pier, and more fortunate, as the son of lawless love, 
than of conjugal hatred.” 

“ Thou art a scandalous fellow, Dunois, to speak 
thus of holy wedlock,” answered Louis, jestingly. 
“ But to the devil with the discourse, for the boar 
is unharboured. — Lay on the dogs, in the name of 
the holy Saint Hubert ! — Ha ! ha ! tra-la-la-lira- 

marten, Louis, speaking of his daughter’s match, says, “ Qu’ils 
n’auroient pas beaucoup d’ambarras a nourrir les enfans que 
naitroient de leur union ; mais cependant elle aura lieu, quelque 
chose qu’ou en puisse dire.” — Wraxall’s History of France , 
Tol. i. p. 143, note. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


*55 


la ! — And the King’s horn rung merrily through 
the woods as he pushed forward on the chase, fol- 
lowed by two or three of his guards, amongst whom 
was our friend Quentin Durward. And here it was 
remarkable, that, even in the keen prosecution of 
his favourite sport, the King, in indulgence of his 
caustic disposition, found leisure to amuse himself 
by tormenting Cardinal Balue. 

It was one of that able statesman’s weaknesses, 
as we have .elsewhere hinted, to suppose himself, 
though of low rank and limited education, quali- 
fied to play the courtier and the man of gallantry. 
He did not, indeed, actually enter the lists of chival- 
rous combat, like Becket, or levy soldiers like 
Wolsey. But gallantry, in which they also were 
proficients, was his professed pursuit ; and he like- 
wise affected great fondness for the martial amuse- 
ment of the chase. Yet, however well he might 
succeed with certain ladies, to whom his power, his 
wealth, and his influence as a statesman, might atone 
for deficiencies in appearance and manners, the gal- 
lant horses, which he purchased at almost any price, 
were totally insensible to the dignity of carrying a 
Cardinal, and paid no more respect to him than they 
would have done to his father, the carter, miller, or 
tailor, whom he rivalled in horsemanship. The 
King knew this, and, by alternately exciting and 
checking his own horse, he brought that of the Car- 
dinal, whom he kept close by his side, into such a 
state of mutiny against his rider, that it became ap- 
parent they must soon part company ; and then, in 
the midst of its starting, bolting, rearing, and lash- 
ing out, alternately, the royal tormentor rendered 
the rider miserable, by questioning him upon many 
affairs of importance, and hinting his purpose to take 


'56 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


that opportunity of communicating to him some of 
those secrets of state, which the Cardinal had but 
a little while before seemed sp anxious to learn . 1 

A more awkward situation could hardly be ima- 
gined, than that of a privy-counsellor forced to 
listen to and reply to his sovereign, while each fresh 
gambade of his unmanageable horse placed him in 
a new and more precarious attitude — his violet robe 
flying loose in every direction, and nothing securing 
him from an instant and perilous fall, save the depth 
of the saddle, and its height before and behind. 
Dunois laughed without restraint; while the King, 
who had a private mode of enjoying his jest in- 
wardly, without laughing aloud, mildly rebuked his 
minister on his eager passion for the chase, which 
would not permit him to dedicate a few moments 
to business. “ I will no longer be your hinderance 
to a course,” continued he, addressing the terrified 
Cardinal, and giving his own horse the rein at the 
same time. 

Before Balue could utter a word by way of an- 
swer or apology, his horse, seizing the bit with his 

1 A friendly, though unknown correspondent, has pointed out 
to me that I have been mistaken in alleging that the Cardinal 
was a bad rider If so, I owe his memory an apology ; for there 
are few men who, until my latter days, have loved that exercise 
better than myself. But the Cardinal may have been an indif- 
ferent horseman, though he wished to be looked upon as equal to 
the dangers of the chase. He was a man of assumption and osten- 
tation, as he showed at the siege of Paris in 1465, where, contrary 
to the custom and usajje of war, he mounted guard during the 
night with an unusual sound of clarions, trumpets, and other 
instruments. In imputing to the Cardinal a want of skill in 
horsemanship. I recollected his adventure in Paris when attacked 
by assassins, on which occasion his mule, being scared by the 
crowd, ran away with the rider, and taking its course to a monas 
tery, to the abbot of which he formerly belonged, was the means 
of saving his master’s life — See Jean de Troy e s’ Chron icle 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


* 5 ? 


teeth, went forth at an uncontrollable gallop, soon 
leaving behind the King and Dunois, who followed 
at a more regulated pace, enjoying the statesman’s 
distressed predicament. If any of our readers has 
chanced to be run away with in his time, (as we 
ourselves have in ours,) he will have a full sense at 
once of the pain, peril, and absurdity of the situa- 
tion. Those four limbs of the quadruped, which, 
noway under the rider’s control, nor sometimes under 
that of the creature they more properly belong to, 
fly at such a rate as if the hindermost meant to over- 
take the foremost — those clinging legs of the biped 
which we so often wish safely planted on the green 
sward, but which now only augment our distress 
by pressing the animal’s sides — the hands which 
have forsaken the bridle for the mane — the body 
which, instead of sitting upright on the centre of 
gravity, as old Angelo used to recommend, or stoop- 
ing forward like a jockey’s at Newmarket, lies, 
rather than hangs, crouched upon the back of the 
animal, with no better chance of saving itself than 
a sack of corn — combine to make a picture more 
than sufficiently ludicrous to spectators, however 
uncomfortable to the exhibiter. But add to this 
some singularity of dress or appearance on the part 
of the unhappy cavalier — a robe of office, a splendid 
uniform, or any other peculiarity of costume, — and 
let the scene of action be a race-course, a review, 
a procession, or any other place of concourse and 
public display, and if the poor wight would escape 
being the object of a shout of inextinguishable 
laughter, he must contrive to break a limb or two, 
or, which will be more effectual, to be killed on 
the spot ; for on no slighter condition will his fall 
excite any thing like serious sympathy. On the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


158 

present occasion, the short violet-coloured gown 
of the Cardinal, which he used as a riding-dress, 
(having changed his long robes before he left the 
Castle,) his scarlet stockings and scarlet hat, with 
the long strings hanging down, together with his 
utter helplessness, gave infinite zest to his exhibition 
of horsemanship. 

The horse, having taken matters entirely into his 
own hand, flew rather than galloped up a long green 
avenue, overtook the pack in hard pursuit of the 
boar, and then, having overturned one or two yeo- 
men prickers, who little expected to be charged in 
the rear, — having ridden down several dogs, and 
greatly confused the chase, — animated by the cla- 
morous expostulations and threats of the huntsman, 
carried the terrified Cardinal past the formidable 
animal itself, which was rushing on at a speedy 
trot, furious and embossed with the foam which 
he churned around his tusks. Balue, on beholding 
himself so near the boar, set up a dreadful cry 
for help, which, or perhaps the sight of the boar, 
produced such an effect on his horse, that the 
animal interrupted its headlong career by suddenly 
springing to one side ; so that the Cardinal, who 
had long kept his seat only because the motion was 
straight forward, now fell heavily to the ground. 
The conclusion of Balue’s chase took place so near 
the boar, that, had not the animal been at that mo- 
ment too much engaged about his own affairs, the 
vicinity might have proved as fatal to the Cardinal, 
as it is said to have done to Favila, King of the 
Visigoths, of Spain. The powerful churchman 
got off, however, for the fright, and, crawling as 
hastily as he could out of the way of hounds and 
huntsmen, saw the whole chase sweep by him with- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


*59 


out affording him assistance ; for hunters in those 
days were as little moved hy sympathy for such 
misfortunes as they are in our own. 

The King, as he passed, said to Dunois, “ Yon- 
der lies his Eminence low enough — he is no great 
huntsman, though for a fisher (when a secret is to 
be caught) he may match Saint Peter himself. 
He has, however, for once, I think, met with his 
match.” 

The Cardinal did not hear the words, but the 
scornful look with which they were spoken led him 
to suspect their general import. The devil is said 
to seize such opportunities of temptation as was now 
afforded by the passions of Balue, bitterly moved 
as they had been by the scorn of the King. The 
momentary fright was over so soon as he had as- 
sured himself that his fall was harmless ; but morti- 
fied vanity, and resentment against his Sovereign, 
had a much longer influence on his feelings. 

After all the chase had passed him, a single 
cavalier, who seemed rather to be a spectator than 
a partaker of the sport, rode up with one or two at- 
tendants, and expressed no small surprise to find 
the Cardinal upon the ground, without a horse or 
attendants, and in such a plight as plainly showed 
the nature of the accident which had placed him 
there. To dismount, and offer his assistance in this 
predicament, — to cause one of his attendants resign 
a staid and quiet palfrey for the Cardinal’s use — 
to express his surprise at the customs of the French 
Court, which thus permitted them to abandon to 
the dangers of the chase, and forsake in his need, 
their wisest statesman, were the natural modes of 
assistance and consolation which so strange a 
rencontre supplied to Cr&vecceur; for it was the 


i6o QUENTIN DURWARD. 

Burgundian ambassador who came to the assistance 
of the fallen Cardinal 

He found the minister in a lucky time and humour 
for essaying some of those practices on his fidelity, 
to which it is well known that Balue had the crimi- > 
nal weakness to listen. Already in the morning, as 
the jealous temper of Louis had suggested, more had 
passed betwixt them than the Cardinal durst have re- 
ported to his master. But although he had listened 
with gratified ears to the high value, which, he was 
assured by Crkvecoeur, the Duke of Burgundy placed 
upon his person and talents, and not without a feel- 
ing of temptation, when the Count hinted at the 
munificence of his master’s disposition, and the rich 
benefices of Flanders, it was not until the accident, 
as we have related, had highly irritated him, that, 
stung with wounded vanity, he resolved, in a fatal 
hour, to show Louis XI., that no enemy can be so 
dangerous as an offended friend and confidant. 

On the present occasion, he hastily requested 
Crkvecoeur to separate from him, lest they should 
be observed, but appointed him a meeting for the 
evening in the Abbey of Saint Martin’s at Tours, 
after vesper service ; and that in a tone which 
assured the Burgundian that his master had ob- 
tained an advantage hardly to have been hoped for, 
except in such a moment of exasperation. 

In the meanwhile, Louis, who, though the most 
politic Prince of his time, upon this, as on other 
occasions, had suffered his passions to interfere with 
his prudence, followed contentedly the chase of the 
wild boar which was now come to an interesting 
point. It had so happened that a sounder (i. e. in 
the language of the period, a boar of only two years 
old) had crossed the track of the proper object of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


i6r 


the chase, and withdrawn in pursuit of him all the 
dogs, (except two or three couple of old stanch 
hounds,) and the greater part of the huntsmen. 
The King saw, with internal glee, Dunois, as well 
as others, follow upon this false scent, and enjoyed 
in secret the thought of triumphing over that ac- 
complished knight, in the art of venerie, which was 
then thought almost as glorious as war. Louis was 
well mounted, and followed close on the hounds ; 
so that, when the original boar turned to bay in a 
marshy piece of ground, there was no one near him 
but the King himself. 

Louis showed all the bravery and expertness of 
an experienced huntsman ; for, unheeding the dan- 
ger, he rode up to the tremendous animal, which 
was defending itself with fury against the dogs, and 
struck him with his boar-spear; yet, as the horse 
shyed from the boar, the blow was not so effectual 
as either to kill or disable him. No effort could pre- 
vail on the horse to charge a second time ; so that 
the King, dismounting, advanced on foot against 
the furious animal, holding naked in his hand one 
of those short, sharp, straight, and pointed swords 
which huntsmen used for such encounters. The 
boar instantly quitted the dogs to rush on his 
human enemy, while the King, taking his station, 
and posting himself firmly, presented the sword, 
with the purpose of aiming it at the boar’s throat, 
or rather chest, within the collar-bone ; in which 
case, the weight of the beast, and the impetuosity 
of its career, would have served to accelerate its 
own destruction. But, owing to the wetness of the 
ground, the King’s foot slipped, just as this delicate 
and perilous manoeuvre ought to have been accom- 
plished, so that the point of the sword encountering 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


162 

the cuirass of bristles on the outside of the creature's 
shoulder, glanced off without making any impres- 
sion, and Louis fell flat on the ground. This was so 
far fortunate for the Monarch, because the animal, 
owing to the King’s fall, missed his blow in his turn*, 
and in passing only rent with his tusk the King’s 
short hunting-cloak, instead of ripping up his thigh. 
But when, after running a little a-head in’ the fury 
of his course, the boar turned to repeat his attack 
on the King at the moment when he was rising, 
the life of Louis was in imminent danger. At this 
critical moment, Quentin Durward, who had been 
thrown out in the chase by the slowness of his 
horse, but who, nevertheless, had luckily distin- 
guished and followed the blast of the King's horn, 
rode up, and transfixed the animal with his spear. 

The King, who had by this time recovered his 
feet, came in turn to Durward’ s assistance, and cut 
the animal’s throat with his sword. Before speak- 
ing a word to Quentin, he measured the huge crea- 
ture not only by paces, but even by feet — then 
wiped the sweat from his brow, and the blood from 
his hands — then took off his hunting-cap, hung it 
on a bush, and devoutly made his orisons to the 
little leaden images which it contained — and at 
length, looking upon Durward, said to him, “ Is it 
thou, my young Scot ? — thou hast begun thy wood- 
craft well, and Maitre Pierre owes thee as good en- 
tertainment as he gave thee at the Fleur-de-Lys 
yonder. — Why dost thou not speak ? Thou hast 
lost thy forwardness and fire, methinks, at the 
Court, where others find both.” 

Quentin, as shrewd a youth as ever Scottish breeze 
breathed caution into, had imbibed more awe than 
confidence towards his dangerous master, and was 











* 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


163 

far too wise to embrace the perilous permission of 
familiarity which he seemed thus invited to use. 
He answered in very few and well-chosen words, 
that if he ventured to address his Majesty at all, it 
could be but to crave pardon for the rustic boldness 
with which he had conducted himself when ignorant 
of his high rank. 

“ Tush ! man,” said the King ; “ I forgive thy 
sauciness for thy spirit and shrewdness. I admired 
how near thou didst hit upon my gossip Tristan’s 
occupation. You have nearly tasted of his" handi- 
work since, as I am given to understand. I bid 
thee beware of him ; he is a merchant who deals in 
rough bracelets and tight necklaces. Help me to 
my horse — I like thee, and will do thee good. 
Build on no man’s favour but mine — not even on 
thine uncle’s or Lord Crawford’s — and say nothing 
of thy timely aid in this matter of the boar ; for if 
a man makes boast that he has served a King in 
such a pinch, he must take the braggart humour 
for its own recompense.” 

The King then winded his horn, which brought 
up Dunois and several attendants, whose compli- 
ments he received on the slaughter of such a noble 
animal, without scrupling to Appropriate a much 
greater share of merit than actually belonged to 
him ; for he mentioned Durward’s assistance as 
slightly as a sportsman of rank, who, in boasting 
of the number of birds which he has, bagged, does 
not always dilate upon the presence and assistance 
of the game-keeper. He then ordered Dunois to see 
that the boar’s carcass was sent to the brotherhood of 
Saint Martin, at Tours, to mend their fare on holy- 
days, and that they might remember the King in 
their private devotions. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


164 

“ And,” said Louis, “ who hath seen his Emi- 
nence my Lord Cardinal ? Methinks it were but 
poor courtesy, and cold regard to Holy Church, to 
leave him afoot here in the forest.” 

“ May it please you, Sire,” said Quentin, when 
he saw that all were silent, “ I saw his Lordship 
the Cardinal accommodated with a horse, on which 
he left the forest.” 

“ Heaven cares for its own,” replied the King. 
“ Set forward to the Castle, my lords ; we’ll hunt 
no more* this morning. — You, Sir Squire,” address- 
ing Quentin, “ reach me my wood-knife — it has 
dropped from the sheath beside the quarry there. 
Ride on, Dunois — I follow instantly.” 

Louis, whose lightest motions were often con- 
ducted like stratagems, thus gained an opportunity 
to ask Quentin privately, “ My bonny Scot, thou 
hast an eye, I see — Canst thou tell me who helped 
the Cardinal to a palfrey ? — Some stranger, I 
should suppose ; for, as I passed without stopping, 
the courtiers would likely be in no hurry to do him 
such a timely good turn.” 

' “ I saw those who aided his Eminence but an 
instant, Sire,” said Quentin ; “ it was only a hasty 
glance, for I had befen unluckily thrown out, and 
was riding fast, to be in my place ; but I think it 
was the Ambassador of Burgundy and his people.” 

“ Ha ! ” said Louis. — “ Well, be it so — France 
will match them yet.” 

There was nothing more remarkable happened, 
and the King, with his retinue, returned to the 
Castle. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE SENTINEL. 

Where should this music be ? i’ the air, or the earth ? 

The Tempest. 

I was all ear, 

And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death. 

Comus. 


Quentin had hardly reached his little cabin, in 
order to make some necessary changes in his dress, 
when his worthy relative required to know the full 
particulars of all that had befallen him at the 
hunt. 

The youth, who could not help thinking that his 
uncle’s hand was probably more powerful than his 
understanding, took care, in his reply, to leave the 
King in full possession of the victory which he had 
seemed desirous to appropriate. Le Balafrd’s reply 
was a boast of how much better he himself would 
have behaved in the like circumstances, and it was 
mixed with a gentle censure of his nephew’s slack- 
ness, in not making in to the King’s assistance, 
when he might be in imminent peril. The youth 
had prudence, in answer, to abstain from all farther 
vindication of his own conduct, except that, accord- 
ing to the rules of woodcraft, he held it ungentle 
to interfere with the game attacked by another 
hunter, unless he was specially called upon for his 
assistance. This discussion was scarcely ended, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


166 

when occasion was afforded Quentin to congratulate 
himself for observing some reserve towards hi? 
kinsman. A low tap at the door announced a 
visitor — it was presently opened, and Oliver Dain, 
or Mauvais, or Diable, for by all these names he 
was known, entered the apartment. 

This able but most unprincipled man has been 
already described, in so far as his exterior is con- 
cerned. The aptest resemblance of his motions 
and manners might perhaps be to those of the do- 
mestic cat, which, while couching in seeming slum- 
ber, or gliding through the apartment with slow, 
stealthy, and timid steps, is now engaged in watch- 
ing the hole of some unfortunate mouse, now in 
rubbing herself with apparent confidence and fond- 
ness against those by whom she desires to be ca- 
ressed, and, presently after, is flying upon her prey, 
or scratching, perhaps, the very object of her former 
cajolements. 

He entered with stooping shoulders, a humble 
and modest look, and threw such a degree of civil- 
ity into his address to the Seignior Balafrd, that no 
one who saw the interview could have avoided con- 
cluding that he came to ask a boon of the Scottish 
Archer. He congratulated Lesly on the excellent 
conduct of his young kinsman in the chase that day, 
which, he observed, had attracted the King’s par- 
ticular attention. He here paused for a reply ; and 
with his eyes fixed on the ground, save just when 
once or twice they stole upwards to take a side 
glance at Quentin, he heard Balafrd observe, “ That 
his Majesty had been unlucky in not having him- 
self by his side instead of his nephew, as he would 
questionless have made in, and speared the brute, a 
matter which he understood Quentin had left upon 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


:6? 


his Majesty’s royal hands, so far as he could learn 
the story. But it will be a lesson to his Majesty,” 
he said, “while he lives, to mount a man of my 
inches on a better horse ; for how could my great 
hill of a Flemish dray-horse keep up with his 
Majesty’s Norman runner ? I am sure I spurred 
till his sides were furrowed. It is ill considered, 
Master Oliver, and you must represent it to his 
Majesty.” 

Master Oliver only replied to this observation by 
turning towards the bold bluff speaker one of those 
slow, dubious glances, which, accompanied by a 
slight motion of the hand, and a gentle depression 
of the head to one side, may be either interpreted 
as a mute assent to what is said, or as a cautious 
deprecation of farther prosecution of the subject. It 
was a keener, more scrutinizing glance, which he 
bent on the youth, as he said, with an ambiguous 
smile, “ So, young man, is it the wont of Scotland 
to suffer your Princes to be endangered for the lack 
of aid, in such emergencies as this of to-day ? ” 

“It is our custom,” answered Quentin, deter- 
mined to throw no farther light on the subject, “not 
to encumber them with assistance in honourable 
pastimes, when they can aid themselves without it. 
We hold that a prince in a hunting-field must take 
his chance with others, and that he comes there for 
the very purpose. What were woodcraft without 
fatigue and without danger ? ” 

“ You hear the silly boy,” said his uncle ; “ that 
is always the way with him ; he hath an answer or 
a reason ready to be rendered to every one. I won- 
der whence he hath caught the gift ; I never could 
give a reason for any thing I have ever done in my 
life, except for eating when I was a-hungry, calling 


1 68 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

the muster-roll, and such points of duty as the 
like.” 

“And pray, worthy Seignior,” said the royal ton- 
sor, looking at him from under his eyelids, “ what 
might your reason be for calling the muster-roll on 
such occasions ? ” 

“ Because the Captain commanded me,” said Le 
BalafrA “ By Saint Giles, I know no other rea- 
son ! If he had commanded Tyrie or Cunningham, 
they must have done the same.” 

“ A most military final cause ! ” said Oliver. — 
“ But, Seignior Le Balafr^, you will be glad, doubt- 
less, to learn, that his Majesty is so far from being 
displeased with your nephew’s conduct, that he 
hath selected him to execute a piece of duty this 
afternoon.” 

m “ Selected him ? ” said Balafrd, in great surprise ; 
— “ Selected me, I suppose you mean ? ” 

“I mean precisely as I speak,” replied the bar- 
ber, in a mild but decided tone ; “ the King hath 
a commission with which to intrust your nephew.” 

“ Why, wherefore, and for what reason ? ” said 
Balafr6 ; “ why doth he choose the boy, and not 
me ? ” 

“ I can go no farther back than your own ul- 
timate cause, Seignior Le Balafr6; such are his 
Majesty’s commands. But,” said he, “ if I might use 
the presumption to form a conjecture, it may be his 
Majesty hath work to do, fitter for a youth like 
your nephew, than for an experienced warrior like 
yourself, Seignior Balafrd — Wherefore, young gen- 
tleman, get your weapons and follow me. Bring 
with you a harquebuss, for you are to mount 
sentinel.” 

“ Sentinel ! ” said the uncle — “ 


are you sure you 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


169 

are right, Master Oliver ? The inner guards of the 
Castle have ever been mounted by those only who 
have (like me) served twelve years in our honour- 
able body.” 

“ I am quite certain of his Majesty’s pleasure,” 
said Oliver, “ and must no longer delay executing it.” 

“ But,” said Le Balafrd, “ my nephew is not even 
a free Archer, being only an Esquire, serving under 
my lance.” 

“ Pardon me,” answered Oliver, “ the King sent 
for the register not half an hour since, and enrolled 
him among the Guard. — Have the goodness to as- 
sist to put your nephew in order for the service.” 

Balafrd, who had no ill-nature, or even much 
jealousy, in his disposition, hastily set about adjust- 
ing his nephew’s dress, and giving him directions 
for his conduct under arms, but was unable-to re- 
frain from larding them with interjections of sur- 
prise at such luck chancing to fall upon the young 
man so early. 

“ It had never taken place before in the Scottish 
Guard,” he said, “ not even in his own instance. 
But doubtless his service must be to mount guard 
over the popinjays and Indian peacocks, which the 
Venetian ambassador had lately presented to the 
King — it could be nothing else ; and such duty 
being only fit for a beardless boy,” (here he twirled 
his own grim mustaches,) “ he was glad the lot had 
fallen on his fair nephew.” 

Quick, and sharp of wit, as well as ardent in 
fancy, Quentin saw visions of higher importance in 
this early summons to the royal presence, and his 
heart beat high at the anticipation of rising into 
speedy distinction. He* determined carefully to 
watch the manners and language of his conductor, 


i yo QUENTIN DURWAE.D. 

which he suspected must, in some cases at least, be 
interpreted by contraries, as soothsayers are said to 
discover the interpretation of dreams. He could 
not but hug himself on having observed strict se- 
crecy on the events of the chase, and then formed 
a resolution, which, for so young a person, had much 
prudence in it, that while he breathed the air of 
this secluded and mysterious Court, he would keep 
his thoughts locked in his bosom, and his tongue 
under the most careful regulation. 

His equipment was soon complete, and, with his 
harquebuss on his shoulder, (for though they re- 
tained the name of Archers, the Scottish Guard 
very early substituted fire-arms for the long-bow, in 
the use of which their nation never excelled,) he 
followed Master Oliver out of the barrack. 

His uncle looked long after him, with a counte- 
nance in which wonder was blended with curiosity 
and though neither envy nor the malignant feel- 
ings which it engenders, entered into his honest 
meditation, there was yet a sense of wounded or 
diminished self-importance, which mingled with the 
pleasure excited by his nephew’s favourable com- 
mencement of service. 

He shook his head gravely, opened a privy cup- 
board, took out a large bottrine of stout old wine, 
shook it to examine how low the contents had ebbed, 
filled and drank a hearty cup ; then took his seat, 
half reclining, on the great oaken settle, and having 
once again slowly shaken his head, received so much 
apparent benefit from the oscillation, that, like the 
toy called a mandarin, he continued the motion 
until he dropped into a slumber, from which he was 
first roused by the signal to ‘dinner. 

When Quentin Durward left his uncle to these 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


171 

sublime meditations, be followed his conductor, 
Master Oliver, who, without crossing any of the 
principal courts, led him partly through private 
passages exposed to the open air, but chiefly through 
a maze of stairs, vaults, and galleries, communicat- 
ing with each other by secret doors, and at unex- 
pected points, into a large and spacious latticed 
gallery, which, from its breadth, might have been 
almost termed a hall, hung with tapestry more an- 
cient than beautiful, and with a very few of the hard, 
cold, ghastly-looking pictures, belonging to the first 
dawn of the arts, which preceded their splendid 
sunrise. These were designed to represent the 
Paladins of Charlemagne, who made such a distin- 
guished figure in the romantic history of France ; 
and as the gigantic form of the celebrated Orlando 
constituted the most prominent figure, the "apart- 
ment acquired from him the title of Roland’s Hall, 
or Roland’s gallery . 1 

“You will keep watch here,” said Oliver, in a 
low whisper, as if the hard delineations of monarchs 
and warriors around could have been offended at 
the elevation of his voice, or as if he had feared to 
awaken the echoes that lurked among the groined- 
vaults and Gothic drop-work on the ceiling of this 
huge and dreary apartment. 

“ What are the orders and signs of my watch ?” 
answered Quentin, in the same suppressed tone. 

“ Is your harquebuss loaded ? ” replied Oliver, 
without answering his query. 

“ That,” answered Quentin, “ is soon done ; ” and 

1 Charlemagne, I suppose on account of his unsparing rigour 
to the Saxons and other heathens, was accounted a saint during 
the dark ages; and Louis XI., as one of his successors, honoured 
his shrine with peculiar observance. 


172 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


proceeded to charge his weapon, and to light the 
slow-match (by which when necessary it was dis- 
charged) at the embers of a wood fire, which was 
expiring in the huge hall chimney — a chimney 
itself so large, that it might have been called a 
Gothic closet or chapel appertaining to the hall. 

When this was performed, Oliver told him that 
he was ignorant of one of the high privileges of 
his own corps, which only received orders from the 
King in person, or the High Constable of France, in 
lieu of their own officers. “You are placed here by 
his Majesty’s command, young man,” added Oliver, 
“ and you will not be long here without knowing 
wherefore you are summoned. Meantime your walk 
extends along this gallery. You are permitted to 
stand still while you list, but on no account to sit 
down, or quit your weapon. You are not to sing 
aloud, or whistle, upon any account ; but you may, 
if you list, mutter some of the church’s prayers, 
or what else you list that has no offence in it, in a 
low voice. Farewell, and keep good watch.” 

“Good watch!” thought the youthful soldier as 
his guide stole aw T ay from him with that noiseless 
gliding step which was peculiar to him, and van- 
ished through a side door behind the arras — “ Good 
watch ! but upon whom, and against whom ? — for 
what, save bats or rats, are there here to contend 
with, unless these grim old representatives of human- 
ity should start into life for the disturbance of my 
guard ? Well, it is my duty, I suppose, and I must 
perform it.” 

With the vigorous purpose of discharging his 
duty, even to the very rigour, he tried to while away 
the time with some ,of the pious hymns which he 
had learned in the convent in which he had found 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


173 ' 


shelter after the death of his father — allowing in 
his own mind, that but for the change of a nov- 
ice’s frock for the rich military dress which he 
now wore, his soldierly walk in the royal gallery 
of France resembled greatly those of which he 
had tired excessively in the cloistered seclusion of 
Aberbrothick. 

Presently, as if to convince himself he now be- 
longed not to the cell but to the world, he chanted 
to himself, but in such tone as not to exceed the 
license given to him, some of the ancient rude 
ballads which the old family harper had taught him, 
of the defeat of the Danes at Aberlemno and Forres, 
the murder of King Duffus at Forfar, and other 
pithy sonnets and lays, which appertained to the 
history of his distant native country, and particu- 
larly of the district to which he belonged. " This 
wore away a considerable space of time, and it was 
now more than two hours past noon, when Quentin 
was reminded by his appetite that the good fathers 
of Aberbrothick, however strict in demanding his 
attendance upon the hours of devotion, were no less 
punctual in summoning him to those of refection ; 
whereas here, in the interior of a royal palace, 
after a morning spent in exercise, and a noon ex- 
hausted in duty, no man seemed to consider it as a 
natural consequence that he must be impatient for 
his dinner. 

There are, however, charms in sweet sounds 
which can lull to rest even the natural feelings of 
impatience, by which Quentin was now visited. 
At the opposite extremities of the long hall or 
gallery, were two ’large doors, ornamented with 
heavy architraves, probably opening into different 
suites of apartments, to which the gallery served 


174 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


as a medium of mutual communication. As the 
sentinel directed his solitary walk betwixt these 
two entrances, which formed the boundary of his 
duty, he was startled by a strain of music, which 
was suddenly waked near one of those doors, and 
which, at least in his imagination, was a combina- 
tion of the same lute and voice by which lie had 
been enchanted on the preceding day. All the 
dreams of yesterday morning, so much weakened 
by the agitating circumstances which he had since 
undergone, again rose more vivid from their slum- 
ber, and, planted on the spot where his ear could 
most conveniently drink in the sounds, Quentin re- 
mained, with his harquebuss shouldered, his mouth 
half open, ear, eye, and soul directed to the spot, 
rather the picture of a sentinel than a living form, — 
without any other idea than that of catching, if pos- 
sible, each passing sound of the dulcet melody. 

These delightful sounds were but partially heard 
— they languished, lingered, ceased entirely, and 
were from time to time renewed after uncertain 
intervals. But, besides that music, like beauty, is 
often most delightful, or at least most interesting 
to the imagination, when its charms are but par- 
tially displayed, and the imagination is left to fill 
up what is from distance but imperfectly detailed, 
Quentin had matter enough to fill up his reverie 
during the intervals of fascination. He could not 
doubt, from the report of his uncle’s comrades, and 
the scene which had passed in the presence-cham- 
ber that morning, that the siren who thus delighted 
his ears, was not, as he had profanely supposed, 
the daughter or kinswoman of a base caba^etier, 
but the same disguised and distressed Countess, for 
whose cause Kings and Princes were now about to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


*75 

buckle on armour, and put lance in rest. A hun- 
dred wild dreams, such as romantic and adventu- 
rous youth readily nourished in a romantic and 
adventurous age, chased from his eyes the bodily 
presentment of the actual scene, and substituted 
their own bewildering delusions, when at once, 
and rudely, they were banished by a rough grasp 
laid upon his weapon, and a harsh voice which ex* 
claimed, close to his ear, “ Ha ! Pasques-dieu, Sir 
Squire, methinks you keep sleepy ward here ! ” 

The voice was the tuneless, yet impressive and 
ironical tone of Maitre Pierre, and Quentin, sud- 
denly recalled to himself, saw, with shame and fear, 
that he had, in his reverie, permitted Louis him- 
self — entering probably by some secret door, and 
gliding along by the wall, or behind the tapestry 
— to approach him so nearly, as almost to master 
his weapon. 

The first impulse of his surprise was to free his 
harquebuss by a violent exertion, which made the 
King stagger backward into the hall. His next 
apprehension was, that in obeying the animal in- 
stinct, as it may be termed, which prompts a brave 
man to resist an attempt to disarm him, he had 
aggravated, by a personal struggle with the King, 
the displeasure produced by the negligence with 
which he had performed his duty upon guard ; and, 
under this impression, he recovered his harquebuss 
without almost knowing what he did, and, having 
again shouldered it, stood motionless before the 
Monarch, whom he had reason to conclude he had 
mortally offended. 

Louis, whose tyrannical disposition was less 
founded on natural ferocity or cruelty of temper, 
than on cold-blooded policy and jealous suspicion, 


>76 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


had, nevertheless, a share of that caustic severity 
which would have made him a despot in private 
conversation, and always seemed to enjoy the pain 
which he inflicted on occasions like the present. 
But he did not push his triumph far, and contented 
himself with saying, — “ Thy service of the morn- 
ing hath already overpaid some negligence in so 
young a soldier — Hast thou dined ? ” 

Quentin, who rather looked to be sent to the 
Provost-Marshal, than greeted with such a compli- 
ment, answered humbly in the negative. 

“ Poor lad,” said Louis, in a softer tone than he 
usually spoke in, “ hunger hath made him drowsy, 
* — I know thine appetite is a wolf,” he continued ; 
“ and I will save thee from one wild beast as thou 
didst me from another , — thou hast been prudent 
too in that matter, and I thank thee for it. — Canst 
thou yet hold out an hour without food ? '* 

“ Four-and-twenty, Sire,” replied Durward, “or 
I were no true Scot.” 

“ I would not for another kingdom be the pasty 
which should encounter thee after such a vigil,” 
said the King “ but the question now is, not of 
thy dinner, but of my own. I admit to my table 
this day, and in strict privacy, the Cardinal Balue 
and this Burgundian — this Count de Crkvecoeur, 
and something may chance — the devil is most 
busy when foes meet on terms of truce.” 

He stopped, and remained silent, with a deep 
and gloomy look. As the King was in no haste to 
proceed, Quentin at length ventured to ask what 
his duty was to be in these circumstances. 

“ To keep watch at the beauffet, with thy loaded 
weapon,” said Louis ; “ and if there is treason, to 
shoot the traitor dead.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


177 


“ Treason, Sire ! and in this guarded Castle ! " 
exclaimed Durward. 

“You think it impossible,” said the King, not 
offended, it would seem, by his frankness ; “ but 
our history has shown that treason can creep into an 
auger-hole. — Treason excluded by guards ! 0 thou 
silly boy ! — quis custodiat ipsos custodes — who shall 
exclude the treason of those very warders ? ” 

“ Their Scottish honour,” answered Durward, 
boldly. 

“True; most right — thou pleasest me,” said the 
King, cheerfully ; “ the Scottish honour was ever 
true, and I trust it accordingly. But treason ! ” — 
Here he relapsed into his former gloomy mood, 
and traversed the apartment with unequal steps — 
“ She sits at our feasts, she sparkles in our bowls, 
she wears the beard of our counsellors, the smiles 
of our courtiers, the crazy laugh of our jesters — 
above all, she lies hid under the friendly air of a 
reconciled enemy. Louis of Orleans trusted John 
of Burgundy — he was murdered in the Rue Bar- 
bette. John of Burgundy trusted the faction of 
Orleans — he was murdered on the Bridge of Monte- 
reau. ( l ) — I will trust no one — no one. Hark ye ; 
I will keep my eye on that insolent Count ; ay, 
and on the Churchman too, whom I hold not too 
faithful. When I say, Ecosse , en avant , 1 shoot 
Crkvecoeur dead on the spot.” 

“ It is my duty,” said Quentin, “ your Majesty’s 
life being endangered.” 

“ Certainly — I mean it no otherwise,” said the 
King. — “ What should I get by slaying this inso- 
lent soldier? — Were it the Constable Saint Paul 
indeed” — Here he paused, as if he thought he 

1 Forward, Scotland. 


78 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


had said a word too much, but resumed, laughing, 
“There’s our brother-in-law, James of Scotland — 
your, own James, Quentin — poniarded the Douglas 
when on a hospitable visit, within his own royal 
castle of Skirling.” 

“ Of Stirling,” said Quentin, “ and so please your 
highness. — It was a deed of which came little 
good.” 

• “ Stirling call you the castle ? ” said the King, 
overlooking the latter part of Quentin’s speech — 
“Well, let it be Stirling — the name is nothing to 
the purpose. But I meditate no injury to these 
men — none — It would, serve me nothing. They 
may not purpose equally fair by me. — I rely on 
thy harquebuss.” 

“ I shall be prompt at the signal,” said Quentin ; 
“ but yet” 

“ You hesitate,” said the King. “ Speak out — - 
I give thee full leave. From such as thou art, hints 
may be caught that are right valuable.” 

“ I would only presume to say,” replied Quentin, 
“that your Majesty having occasion to distrust 
this Burgundian, I marvel that you suffer him to 
approach so near your person, and that in privacy.” 

“ 0 content you, Sir Squire,” said the King. 
“There are some dangers, which, when they are 
braved, disappear, and which yet, when there is an 
obvious and apparent dread of them displayed, be- 
come certain and inevitable. When I walk boldly 
up to a surly mastiff, and caress him, it is ten to 
one I soothe him to good temper; if I show fear of 
him, he flies on me and rends me. I will be thus 
far frank with thee — It concerns me nearly that 
this man returns not to his headlong master in a 
resentful humour. I run my risk, therefore. I 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


179 


have never shunned to expose my life for the weal 
of my kingdom. — Follow me.” 

Louis led his young Life-guards-man, for whom 
he seemed to have taken a special favour, through 
the side-door by which he had himself entered, say- 
ing, as he showed it him, “He who would thrive 
at Court must know the private wickets and con- 
cealed staircases — ay, and the traps and pitfalls of 
the palace, as well as the principal entrances, fold- 
ing-doors, and portals.” 

After several turns and passages, the King en- 
tered a small vaulted room, where a table was pre- 
pared for dinner with three covers. The whole 
furniture and arrangements of the room were plain 
almost to meanness. A beauffet, or folding and 
movable cupboard, held a few pieces of gold and 
silver plate, and was the only article in the chamber 
which had, in the slightest degree, the appearance 
of royalty. Behind this cupboard, and completely 
hidden by it, was the post which Louis assigned to 
Quentin Durward ; and after having ascertained, 
by going to different parts of the room, that he was 
invisible from all quarters, he gave him his last 
charge — “ Bemember the word, Ecosse , en avant ; 
and so soon as ever I utter these sounds, throw 
down the screen — spare not for cup or goblet, 
and be sure thou take good aim at Crkvecoeur — If 
thy piece fail, cling to him, and use thy knife — 
Oliver and I can deal with the Cardinal.” 

Having thus spoken, he whistled aloud, and sum- 
moned into the apartment Oliver, who was premier- 
valet of the chamber as well as barber, and who, 
in fact, performed all offices immediately connected 
with the King’s person, and who now appeared; 
attended by two old men. who were the only assist* 


180 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

ants or waiters at the royal table. So soon as the 
King had taken his place, the visitors were ad- 
mitted ; and Quentin, though himself unseen, was 
so situated as to remark all the particulars of the 
interview. 

The King welcomed his visitors with a degree of 
cordiality, which Quentin had the utmost difficulty 
to reconcile with the directions which he had pre- 
viously received, and the purpose for which he 
stood behind the beauffet with his deadly weapon 
in readiness. Not only did Louis appear totally 
free from apprehension of any kind, but one would 
have supposed that those visitors whom he'’ had done 
the high honour to admit to his table, were the very 
persons in whom he could most unreservedly confide, 
and whom he was most willing to honour. Nothing 
could be more dignified, and at the same time more 
courteous, than his demeanour. While all around 
him, including even his own dress, was far beneath 
the splendour which the petty princes of the king- 
dom displayed in their festivities, his own language 
and manners were those of a mighty Sovereign in his 
most condescending mood. Quentin was tempted 
to suppose, either that the whole of his previous 
conversation with Louis had been a dream, or that 
the dutiful demeanour of the Cardinal, and the frank, 
open, and gallant bearing of the Burgundian noble, 
had entirely erased the King’s suspicion. 

But whilst the guests, in obedience to the King, 
were in the act of placing themselves at the table, 
his Majesty darted one keen glance on them, and 
then instantly directed his look to Quentin’s post. 
This was done in an instant ; but the. glance con- 
veyed so much doubt and hatred towards his guests, 
such a peremptory injunction on Quentin to be 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


181 


watchful in attendance, and prompt in execution, 
that no room was left for doubting that the senti- 
ments of Louis continued unaltered, and his appre- 
hensions unabated. He was, therefore, more than 
ever astonished at the deep veil under which that 
Monarch was able to conceal the movements of his 
jealous disposition. 

Appearing to have entirely forgotten the language 
which Crbvecoeur had held towards him in the face 
of his Court, the King conversed with him of old 
times, of events which had occurred during his own 
exile in the territories of Burgundy, and enquired 
respecting all the nobles with whom he had been 
then familiar, as if that period had indeed been the 
happiest of his life, and as if he retained towards 
all who had contributed to soften the term of his 
exile, the kindest and most grateful sentiments. 

“To an ambassador of another nation,” he said, 
“ I would have thrown something of state into our 
reception ; but to an old friend, who often shared 
my board at the Castle of Genappes , 1 I wished to 
show myself, as I love best to live, old Louis of 
Valois, as simple and plain as any of his Parisian 
badauds. But I directed them to make some better 
cheer than ordinary for you, Sir Count, for I know 
your Burgundian proverb, ‘ Mieux vault bon repas 
que bel habit ; ’ and therefore I bid them have some 
care of our table. For our wine, you know well 
it is the subject of an old emulation betwixt France 
and Burgundy, which we will presently reconcile ; 
for I will drink to you in Burgundy, and you, Sir 
Count, shall pledge me in Champagne. — Here, 

1 During his residence in Burgundy, in his father’s lifetime, 
Genappes was the usual abode of Louis. This period of exile is 
often alluded to in the novel. 


182 


QUEN.TIN DURWARD. 


Oliver, let me have a cup of Vin d’Auxerre ; ” and 
he hummed gaily a song then well known — 

“ Auxerre est le boisson des Rois .” 

“ Here, Sir Count, I drink to the health of the noble 
Duke of Burgundy, our kind and loving cousin. — 
Oliver, replenish yon golden cup with Vin de 
Rheims , and give it to the Count on your knee — 
he represents our loving brother. — My Lord Cardi- 
nal, we will ourself fill your cup.” 

“ You have already, Sire, even to overflowing,” , 
said the Cardinal, with the lowly mien of a favourite 
towards an indulgent master. 

“ Because we know that your Eminence can carry 
it with a steady hand,” said Louis. “ But which 
side do you espouse in the great controversy — ■ 
Sillery or Auxerre — France or Burgundy ? ” 

“ I will stand neutral, Sire,” said the Cardinal, 

“ and replenish my cup with Auvernat.” 

“ A neutral has a perilous part to sustain,” said 
the King ; but as he observed the Cardinal colour 
somewhat, he glided from the subject, and added, 
“But you prefer the Auvernat, because it is so 
noble a wine it endures not water. — You, Sir 
Count, hesitate to empty your cup. I trust you 
have found no national bitterness at the bottom.” 

“ I would, Sir,” said the Count de Crkvecoeur, 

“ that all national quarrels could be as pleasantly 
ended as the rivalry betwixt our vineyards.” 

“ With time, Sir Count,” answered the King, 

“ with time — such time as you have taken to your 
draught of Champagne. — And now that it is 
finished, favour me by putting the goblet in your 
bosom, and keeping it as a pledge of our regard. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


183 


It is not to every one that we would part with it. 
It belonged of yore to that terror of France, Henry 
Y. of England, and was taken when Rouen was 
reduced, and those islanders expelled from Normandy 
by the joint arms of France and Burgundy. It 
cannot be better bestowed than on a noble and 
valiant Burgundian, who well knows that on the 
union of these two nations depends the continuance 
of the freedom of the continent from the English 
yoke.” 

The Count made a suitable answer, and Louis 
gave unrestrained way to the satirical gaiety of 
disposition which sometimes enlivened the darker 
shades 'of his character. Leading, of course, the 
conversation, his remarks, always shrewd and caus- 
tic, (m) and often actually witty, were seldom good- 
natured, and the anecdotes with which he illustrated 
them were often more humorous than delicate ; 
hut in no one word, syllable, or letter, did he betray 
the state of mind of one who, apprehensive of assas- 
sination, hath in his apartment an armed soldier, 
with his piece loaded, in order to prevent or anti- 
cipate an attack on his person. 

The Count of Crkvecoeur gave frankly in to the 
King’s humour ; while the smooth churchman laughed 
at every jest, and enhanced every ludicrous idea, 
without exhibiting any shame at expressions which 
made the rustic young Scot blush even in his place 
of concealment . 1 In about an hour and a half the 
tables were drawn ; and the King, taking courteous 
leave of his guests, gave the signal that it was his 
desire to be alone. 

1 The nature of Louis Xlth’s coarse humour may be guessed 
at by those who have perused the “ Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles/ 
which are grosser than most similar collections of the age 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


184 

So soon as all, even Oliver, had retired, he called 
Quentin from his place of concealment ; but with a 
voice so faint, that the youth could scarce believe it 
to be the same which had so lately given animation 
to the jest, and zest to the tale. As he approached, 
he saw an equal change in his countenance. The 
light of assumed vivacity had left the King’s eyes, 
the smile had deserted his face, and he exhibited 
all the fatigue of a celebrated actor, when he has 
finished the exhausting representation of some 
favourite character, in which, while upon the stage, 
he had displayed the utmost vivacity. 

“Thy watch is not yet over,” said he to Quentin 
— “refresh thyself for an instant — yonder table, 
affords the means — I will then instruct thee in thy 
farther duty. Meanwhile, it is ill talking between a 
full man and a fasting.” 

He threw himself back on his seat, covered his 
brow with his hand, and was silent. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE HALL OF ROLAND. 

Painters show Cupid blind — Hath Hymen eyes ? 

Or is his sight warp’d by those spectacles 
Which parents, guardians, and advisers, lend him, 

That he may look through them on lands and mansions, 

On jewels, gold, and all such rich dotations, 

And see their value ten times magnified ? — 

Methinks ’twill brook a question. 

The Miseries of Enforced Marriage. 


Louis the Xlth of France, though the sovereign 
in Europe who was fondest and most jealous of 
power, desired only its substantial enjoyment ; and 
though he knew well enough, and at times exacted 
strictly, the observances due to his rank, was in 
general singularly careless of show. 

In a prince of sounder moral qualities, the fami- 
liarity with which he invited subjects to his board 
— nay, occasionally sat at theirs — must have been 
highly popular ; and even such as he was, the King’s 
homeliness of manners atoned for many of his vices 
with that class of his subjects who were not particu- 
larly exposed to the consequences of his suspicion 
and jealousy. The tiers etat , or commons of France, 
who rose to more opulence and consequence under 
the reign of this sagacious Prince, respected his 
person, though they loved him not; and it was 
resting on their support that he was enabled to 
make his party good against the hatred of the nobles, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


1 86 

who conceived that Re diminished the honour of 
the French crown, and obscured their own splen- 
did privileges, by that very neglect of form which 
gratified the citizens and commons. 

With patience, which most other princes would 
have considered as degrading, and not without a 
sense of amusement, the Monarch of France waited 
till his Life-guards-man had satisfied the keenness 
of a youthful appetite. It may be supposed, how- 
ever, that Quentin had too much sense and prudence 
to put the royal patience to a long or tedious proof ; 
and indeed he was repeatedly desirous to break 
off his repast ere Louis would permit him. “ I 
see it in thine eye,” he said, good-naturedly, “ that 
thy courage is not half abated. Go on — God and 
Saint Dennis ! — charge again. I tell thee that 
meat and mass ” (crossing himself) “ never hindered 
the work of a good Christian man. Take a cup of 
wine ; but mind thou be cautious of the wine-pot — 
it is the vice of thy countrymen, as well as of the 
English, who, lacking that folly, are the choicest 
soldiers ever wore armour. And now wash speedily 
— forget not thy benfdicite , and follow me.” 

Quentin obeyed, and, conducted by a different, 
but as mazelike an approach as he had formerly 
passed, he followed Louis into the Hall of Roland. 

“Take notice,” said the King, imperatively, “ thou 
hast never left this post — let that be thine answer 
to thy kinsman and comrades — and, hark thee, to 
bind the recollection on thy memory, I give thee 
this gold chain,” (flinging on his arm one of con- 
siderable value.) “If I go not brave myself, those 
whom I trust have ever the means to ruffle it with 
the best. But, when such chains as these bind not 
the tongue from wagging too freely, my gossip, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


187 


L’Hermite, hath an amulet for the throat, which 
never fails to work a certain cure. And now attend. 
— No man, save Oliver or I myself, enters here this 
evening ; but ladies will come hither, perhaps from 
the one extremity of the hall, perhaps from the 
other, perhaps one from each. . You may answer if 
they address you, but, being on duty, your answer 
must be brief ; and you must neither address them 
in your turn, nor engage in any prolonged discourse. 
But hearken to what they say. Thine ears, as 
well as thy hands, are mine — I have bought thee, 
body and soul. Therefore, if thou hearest aught of 
their conversation, thou must retain it in memory 
until it is communicated to me, and then forget it. 
And, now I think better on it, it will be best that 
thou pass for a Scottish recruit, who hath come 
straight down from his mountains, and hath not yet 
acquired our most Christian language. — Right. — • 
So, if they speak to thee, thou wilt not answer — 
this will free you from embarrassment, and lead 
them to converse without regard to your presence. 
You understand me. — Farewell. Be wary, and 
thou hast a friend.” 

The King had scarce spoken these words ere he 
disappeared behind the arras, leaving Quentin to 
meditate on what he had seen and heard. The 
youth was in one of those situations from which it 
is pleasanter to look forward than to look back ; for 
the reflection that he had been planted like a marks* 
man in a thicket who watches for a stag, to take 
the life of the noble Count of Crkvecoeur, had in it 
nothing ennobling. It was very true, that the King’s 
measures seemed on this occasion merely cautionary 
and defensive ; but how did the youth know but 
he might be soon commanded on some offensive 


i88 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


operation of the same kind ? This would be an 
unpleasant crisis, since it was plain, from the char- 
acter of his master, that there would be destruction 
in refusing, while his honour told him there would 
be disgrace in complying. He turned his thoughts 
from this subject of reflection, with the sage conso- 
lation so often adopted by youth when prospective 
dangers intrude themselves on their mind, that it 
was time enough to think what was to be done when 
the emergence actually arrived, and that sufficient 
for the day was the evil thereof. 

Quentin made use of this sedative reflection the 
more easily, that the last commands of the King, 
had given him something more agreeable to think 
of than his own condition. The Lady of the Lute 
was certainly one of those to whom his attention 
was to be dedicated ; and well in his mind did he 
promise to obey one part of the King’s mandate, 
and listen with diligence to every word that might 
drop from her lips, that he might know if the magic 
of her conversation equalled that of her music. But 
with as much sincerity did he swear to himself, that 
no part of her discourse should be reported by him 
to the King, which might affect the fair speaker 
otherwise than favourably. 

Meantime, there was no fear of his again slum- 
bering on his post. Each passing breath of wind, 
which, finding its way through the open lattice, 
waved the old arras, sounded like the approach of 
the fair object of his expectation. He felt, in short, 
all that mysterious anxiety, and eagerness of 
expectation, which is always the companion of 
love, and sometimes hath a considerable share in 
creating it. 

At length, a door actually creaked and jingled 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


189 


(for the doors even of palaces did not in the fifteenth 
century turn on their hinges so noiseless as ours ;) 
but, alas ! it was not at that end of the hall from 
which the lute had been heard. It opened, how- 
.ever, and a female figure entered, followed by two 
others, whom she directed by a sign to remain 
without, while she herself came forward into the 
hall. By her imperfect and unequal gait, which 
showed to peculiar disadvantage as she traversed 
this long gallery, Quentin at once recognised the 
Princess Joan, and, with the respect which became 
bis situation, drew himself up in a fitting attitude 
of silent vigilance , and lowered his weapon to her 
as she passed. She acknowledged the courtesy by a 
gracious inclination of her head, and he had an op- 
portunity of seeing her countenance more distinctly 
than he had in the morning. 

There was little in the features of this ill-fated 
Princess to atone for the misfortune of her shape 
and gait. Her face was, indeed, by no means dis- 
agreeable in itself, though destitute of beauty ; and 
there was a meek expression of suffering patience 
in her large blue eyes, which were commonly fixed 
upon the ground. But besides that she was ex- 
tremely pallid in complexion, her skin had the yel- 
lowish discoloured tinge which accompanies habitual 
bad health ; and though her teeth were white and 
regular, her lips were thin and pale. The Princess 
had a profusion of flaxen hair, but it was so light- 
coloured, as to be almost of a bluish tinge ; and her 
tire- woman, who doubtless considered the luxuri- 
ance of her mistress’s tresses as a beauty, had not 
greatly improved matters, by arranging them in 
curls around her pale countenance, to which they 
added an expression almost corpse-like and un- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


190 

earthly. To make matters still worse, she had 
chosen a vest or cymar of a pale green silk, which 
gave her, on the whole, a ghastly and even spectral 
appearance. 

While Quentin followed this singular apparition 
with eyes in which curiosity was blended with com- 
passion, for every look and motion of the Princess 
seemed to call for the latter feeling, two ladies 
entered from the upper end of the apartment. 

One of these was the young person, who, upon 
Louis’s summons, had served him with fruit, while 
Quentin made his memorable breakfast at the Fleur- 
de-Lys. Invested now with all the mysterious dig- 
nity belonging to the nymph of the veil and lute, 
and proved, besides, (at least in Quentin’s estima- 
tion,) to be the high-born heiress of a rich earldom, 
her beauty made ten times the impression upon 
him which it had done when he beheld in her one 
whom he deemed the daughter of a paltry inn- 
keeper, in attendance upon a rich and humorous 
old burgher. He now wondered what fascination 
could ever have concealed from him her real char- 
acter. Yet her dress was nearly as simple as before, 
being a suit of deep mourning, without any orna- 
ments. Her head-dress was but a veil of crape, 
which was entirely thrown back, so as to leave her 
face uncovered ; and it was only Quentin’s know- 
ledge of her actual rank, which gave in his estima- 
tion new elegance to her beautiful shape, a dignity 
to her step which had before remained unnoticed, 
and to her regular features, brilliant complexion, 
and dazzling eyes, an air of conscious nobleness, 
that enhanced their beauty. 

Had death been the penalty, Durward must 
needs have rendered to this beauty and her com' 


QUENTIN DURWARD 


*9i 


panion the same homage which he had just paid 
to the royalty of the Princess. They received it as 
those who were accustomed to the deference of 
inferiors, and returned it with courtesy ; but he 
tli ought — perhaps it was but a youthful vision — 
that the young lady coloured slightly, kept her eyes 
on the ground, and seemed embarrassed, though in 
a trifling degree, as she returned his military saluta- 
tion. This must have been owing to her recollec- 
tion of the audacious stranger in the neighbouring 
turret at the Fleur-de-Lys ; but did that discom- 
posure express displeasure ? This question he had 
no means to determine. 

The companion of the youthful Countess, dressed 
like herself simply, and in deep mourning, was at 
the age when women are apt to cling most closely 
to that reputation for beauty which has for years 
been diminishing. She had still remains enough to 
show what the power of her charms must once have 
been, and, remembering past triumphs, it was evi- 
dent from her manner that she had not relinquished 
the pretensions to future conquests. She was tall 
and graceful, though somewhat haughty in her 
deportment, and returned the salute of Quentin with 
a smile of gracious condescension, whispering, the 
next instant, something into her companion’s ear, 
who turned towards the soldier, as if to comply with 
some hint from the elder lady, but answered, never- 
theless, without raising her eyes. Quentin could 
not help suspecting that the observation called on 
the young lady to notice his own good mien ; and 
he was (I do not know why) pleased with the idea, 
that the party referred to did not choose to look at 
him, in order to verify with her own eyes the truth 
of the observation. Probably he thought there was 


192 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


already a sort of mysterious connexion beginning 
to exist between them, which gave importance to 
the slightest trifle. 

This reflection was momentary, for he was in- 
stantly wrapped up in attention to the meeting of 
the Princess Joan with these stranger ladies. She 
had stood still upon their entrance, in order to 
receive them, conscious, perhaps, that motion did 
not become her well ; and as she was somewhat 
embarrassed in receiving and repaying their compli- 
ments, the elder stranger, ignorant of the rank of 
the party whom she addressed, was led to pay her 
salutation in a manner, rather as if she conferred 
than received an honour through the interview. 

" I rejoice, madam,” she said, with a smile, which 
was meant to express condescension at once and 
encouragement, “ that we are at length permitted the 
society of Much a respectable person of our own sex 
as you appear to be. I must say, that my niece and 
I have had but little for which to thank the hospi- 
tality of King Louis — Nay, niece, never pluck my 
sleeve — I am sure I read in the looks of this young 
lady, sympathy for our situation. — Since we came 
hither, fair madam, we have been used little better 
than mere prisoners ; and after a thousand invita- 
tions to throw our cause and our persons under the 
protection of France, the Most Christian King has 
afforded us at first but a base inn for our residence, 
and now a corner of this moth-eaten palace, out of 
which we are only permitted to creep towards sun- 
set, as if we were bats or owls, whose appearance 
in the sunshine is to be held matter of ill omen.” 

“I am sorry,” said the Princess, faltering with 
the awkward embarrassment of the interview, “ that 
we have been unable, hitherto, to receive you 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


193 


according to your deserts. Your niece, I trust, is 
better satisfied ? ” • 

“ Much — much better than I can express,” 
answered the youthful Countess — “ I sought but 
safety, and I have found solitude and secrecy besides. 
. The seclusion of our former residence, and the still 
greater solitude of that now assigned to us, augment, 
in my eye, the favour which the King vouchsafed 
to us unfortunate fugitives.” 

“Silence, my silly cousin,” said the elder lady, 
“ and let us speak according to our conscience, since 
at last we are alone with one of our own sex — I say 
alone, for that handsome young soldier is a mere 
statue, since he seems not to have the use of his 
limbs, and I am given to understand he wants that 
of his tongue, at least in civilized language — I say, 
since no one but this lady can understand us, I must 
own there is nothing I have regretted equal to tak- 
ing this French journey. I looked for a splendid 
reception, tournaments, carousals, pageants, and fes- 
tivals ; and instead of which, all has been seclusion 
and obscurity ! and the best society whom the King 
introduced to us, was a Bohemian vagabond, by 
whose agency he directed us to correspond with our 
friends in Flanders. — Perhaps,” said the lady, “ it 
is his politic intention to mew us up here until our 
lives’ end, that he may seize on our estates, after 
the extinction of the ancient house of Croye. The 
Duke of Burgundy was not so cruel ; he offered my 
niece a husband, though he was a bad one.” 

“I should have thought the veil preferable to an 
evil husband,” said the Princess, with difficulty 
finding opportunity to interpose a word. 

“One would at least wish to have the choice, 
madam,” replied the voluble dame. “ It is, Heaven 


i 9 4 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

knows, on account of my niece that I speak ; for 
myself, I have long laid aside thoughts of changing 
my condition. I see you smile, hut, by my halidoine 
it is true — yet that is no excuse for the King, whose 
conduct, like his person, hath more resemblance to 
that of old Michaud, the money-changer of Ghent, 
than to the successor of Charlemagne.” 

“ Hold ! ” said the Princess, with some asperity 
in her tone ; “ remember you speak of my father.” 

“Of your father!” replied the Burgundian lady 
In surprise. 

“ Of my father,” repeated the Princess, with 
dignity. “I am Joan of France.(%) — But fear not, 
madam,” she continued, in the gentle accent which 
was natural to her, “ you designed no offence, and 
I have taken none. Command my influence to 
render your exile, and that of this interesting young 
person, more supportable. Alas ! it is but little I 
have in my power ; but it is willingly offered.” 

Deep and submissive was the reverence with 
which the Countess Hameline de Croye, so was the 
elder lady called, received the obliging offer of the 
Princess’s protection. She had been long the inhab- 
itant of Courts, was mistress of the manners which 
are there acquired, and held firmly the established 
rule of courtiers of all ages, who, although their usual 
private conversation turns upon the vices and follies 
of their patrons, and on the injuries and neglect 
which they themselves have sustained, never suffer 
such hints to drop from them in the presence of the 
Sovereign or those of his family. The lady was, 
therefore, scandalized to the last degree at the mis- 
take which had induced her to speak so indecor- 
ously in presence of the daughter of Louis. She 
would have exhausted herself in expressing regret 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


195 


and making apologies, had she not been put to silence 
and restored to equanimity by the Princess, who 
requested, in the most gentle manner, yet which, 
from a Daughter of France, had the weight of a 
command, that no more might be said in the way 
either of excuse or of explanation. 

The .Princess Joan then took her own chair with 
a dignity which became her, and compelled the two 
strangers to sit, one on either hand, to which the 
younger consented with unfeigned and respectful 
diffidence, and the elder with an affectation of deep 
humility and deference, which was intended for such. 
They spoke together, but in such a low tone, that 
the sentinel could not overhear their discourse, and 
only remarked, that the Princess seemed to bestow 
much of her regard on the younger and more inter- 
esting lady ; and that the Countess Hameline, though 
speaking a great deal more, attracted less of the Prin- 
cess’s attention by her full flow of conversation and 
compliment, than did her kinswoman by her brief 
and modest replies to what was addressed to her. 

The conversation of the ladies had not lasted a 
quarter of an hour, when the door at the lower end 
of the hall opened, and a man entered shrouded in 
a riding-cloak. Mindful of the King’s injunction, 
and determined not to be a second time caught 
slumbering, Quentin instantly moved towards the 
intruder, and, interposing between him and the 
ladies, requested him to retire instantly. 

“ By whose command ? ” said the stranger, in a 
tone of contemptuous surprise. 

“ By that of the King,” said Quentin, firmly, 
“which I am placed here to enforce.” 

“ Not against Louis of Orleans,” said the Duke, 
dropping his cloak. 


196 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


The young man hesitated a moment; but how 
enforce his orders against the first Prince of the 
blood, about to be allied, as the report now gene- 
rally went, with the King’s own family ? 

“Your Highness,” he said, “is too great that 
your pleasure should be withstood by me. I trust 
your Highness will bear me witness that I have 
done the duty of my post, so far as your will 
permitted.” 

“Go to — you shall have no blame, young sol- 
dier,” said Orleans ; and passing forward, paid his 
compliments to the Princess, with that air of con- 
straint which always marked his courtesy when 
addressing her. 

“He had been dining,” he said, “with Dunois, 
and understanding there was society in Roland’s 
Gallery, he had ventured on the freedom of adding 
one to the number.” 

The colour which mounted into the pale cheek 
of the unfortunate Joan, and which for the mo- 
ment spread something of beauty over her features, 
evinced that this addition to the company was any 
thing but indifferent to her. She hastened to present 
the Prince to the two ladies of Croye, who re- 
ceived him with the respect due to his eminent 
rank; and the Princess, pointing to a chair, re- 
quested him to join their conversation party. 

The Duke declined the freedom of assuming a 

o 

seat in such society ; but taking a cushion from one 
of the settles, he laid it at the feet of the beautiful 
young Countess of Croye, and so seated himself, 
that, without appearing to neglect the Princess, he 
was enabled to bestow the greater share of his at- 
tention on her lovely neighbour. 

At first, it seemed as if this arrangement rather 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


197 


pleased than offended his destined bride. She en- 
couraged the Duke in his gallantries towards the 
fair stranger, and seemed to regard them as com- 
plimentary to herself. But the Duke of Orleans, 
though accustomed to subject his mind to the stern 
yoke of his uncle, when in the King’s presence, had 
enough of princely nature to induce him to follow 
his own inclinations whenever that restraint was 
withdrawn ; and his high rank giving him a right 
to overstep the ordinary ceremonies, and advance 
at once to familiarity, his praises of the Countess 
Isabelle’s beauty became so energetic, and flowed 
with such unrestrained freedom, owing perhaps to 
his having drunk a little more wine than usual — 
for Dunois was no enemy to the worship of Bacchus 
— that at length he seemed almost impassioned, 
and the presence of the Princess appeared wellnigh 
forgotten. 

The tone of compliment which he indulged was 
grateful only to one individual in the circle ; for the 
Countess Hameline already anticipated the dignity 
of an alliance with the first Prince of the blood, by 
means of her whose birth, beauty, and large posses- , 
sions, rendered such an ambitious consummation 
by no means impossible, even in the eyes of a less 
sanguine projector, could the views of Louis XL 
have been left out of the calculation of chances. 
The younger Countess listened to the Duke’s gal- 
lantries with anxiety and embarrassment, and ever 
and anon turned an entreating look towards the 
Princess, as if requesting her to come to her relief. 
But the wounded feelings, and the timidity of Joan 
of France, rendered her incapable of an effort to make 
the conversation more general ; and at length, ex- 
cepting a few interjectional civilities of the Lady 


198 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Hameline, it was maintained almost exclusively by 
the Duke himself, though at the expense of the 
younger Countess of Croye, whose beauty formed 
the theme of his high-flown eloquence. 

Nor must I forget that there was a third person, 
the unregarded sentinel, who saw his fair visions 
melt away like wax* before the sun, as the Duke 
persevered in the warm tenor of his passionate dis- 
course. At length the Countess Isabelle de Croye 
made a determined effort to cut short what was 
becoming intolerably disagreeable to her, especially 
from the pain to which the conduct of the Duke 
was apparently subjecting the Princess. 

Addressing the latter, she said, modestly, but 
with some firmness, that the first boon she had to 
claim from her promised protection was, “ that her 
Highness would undertake to convince the Duke of 
Orleans, that the ladies of Burgundy, though inferior 
in wit and manners to those of France, were not such 
absolute fools, as to be pleased with no other conver- 
sation than that of extravagant compliment.” 

“ I grieve, lady,” said the Duke, preventing the 
Princess’s answer, “that you will satirize, in the 
same sentence, the beauty of the dames of Bur- 
gundy, and the sincerity of the knights of France. 
If we are hasty and extravagant in the expression 
of our admiration, it is because we love as we fight, 
without letting cold deliberation come into our 
bosoms, and surrender to the fair with the same 
rapidity with which we defeat the valiant.” 

“The beauty of our countrywomen,” said the 
young Countess, with more of reproof than she had 
yet ventured to use towards the high-born suitor, 
“ is as unfit to claim such triumphs, as the valour of 
the men of Burgundy is incapable of yielding them.” 














































































I : 








































, 




















































* 











QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


199 

“I respect your patriotism, pountess,” said the 
Duke ; “ and the last branch of your theme shall 
not be impugned by me, till a Burgundian knight 
shall offer to sustain it with lance in rest. But for 
the injustice which you have done to the charms 
which your land produces, I appeal from yourself 
to yourself. — Look there,” he said, pointing to a 
large mirror, “ the gift of the Venetian republic, and 
then of the highest rarity and value, “ and tell me, 
as you look, what is the heart that can resist the 
charms there represented ? ” 

The Princess, unable to sustain any longer the 
neglect of her lover, here sunk backwards on her 
chair, with a sigh, which at once recalled the Duke 
from the land of romance, and induced the Lady 
Hameline to ask whether her Highness found 
herself ill. 

“ A sudden pain shot through my forehead,” said 
the Princess, attempting to smile ; “ but I shall be 
presently better.” 

Her increasing paleness contradicted her words, 
and induced the Lady Hameline to call for assist- 
ance, as the Princess was about to faint. 

The Duke, biting his lip, and cursing the folly 
which could not keep guard over his tongue, ran to 
summon the Princess’s attendants, who were in the 
next chamber ; and when they came hastily, with 
the usual remedies, he could not but, as a cavalier 
and gentleman, give his assistance to support and to 
recover her. His voice, rendered almost tender by 
pity and self-reproach, was the most powerful means 
of recalling her to herself, and just as the swoon 
was passing away, the King himself entered the 
apartment. 




CHAPTER XII 

THE POLITICIAN. 

This is a lecturer so skill’d in policy, 

That (no disparagement to Satan’s cunning) 

He well might read a lesson to the devil, 

And teach the old seducer new temptations 

Old Play. 

As Louis entered the Galley, he bent his brows in 
the manner we have formerly described as peculiar 
to him, and sent, from under his gathered and 
gloomy eyebrows, a keen look on all around; in 
darting which, as Quentin afterwards declared, his 
eyes seemed to turn so small, so fierce, and so piercing, 
as to resemble those of an aroused adder looking 
through the bush of heath in which he lies coiled. 

When, by this momentary and sharpened glance, 
the King had reconnoitred the cause of the bustle 
which was in the apartment, his first address was to 
the Duke of Orleans. 

“You here, my fair cousin?” he said; — and 
turning to Quentin, added sternly, “Had you not 
charge ? ” 

“Forgive the young man, Sire,” said the Duke ; 
“ he did not neglect his duty ; but I was informed 
that the Princess was in this gallery.” 

“And I warrant you would not be withstood 
when you came hither to pay your court,” said the 
King, whose detestable hypocrisy persisted in repre- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


201 


senting the Duke as participating in a passion which 
was felt only on the side of his unhappy daughter ; 
“ and it is thus you debauch the sentinels of my 
guard, young man? — But what cannot be pardoned 
to a gallant who only lives par amours ! ” 

The Duke of Orleans raised his head, as if about 
to reply, in some manner which might correct the 
opinion conveyed in the King’s observation ; but 
the instinctive reverence, not to say fear, of Louis, 
in which he had been bred from childhood, chained 
up his voice. 

“ And Joan hath been ill ? ” said the King ; “ but 
do not be grieved, Louis ; it will soon pass away ; 
lend her your arm to her apartment, while I will 
conduct these strange ladies to theirs.” 

The order was given in a tone which amounted 
to a command, and Orleans accordingly made his 
exit with the Princess at one extremity of the 
gallery, while the King, ungloving his right hand, 
courteously handed the Countess Isabelle and her 
kinswoman to their apartment, which opened from 
the other. He bowed profoundly as they entered, 
and remained standing on the threshold for a min- 
ute after they had disappeared; then, with great 
composure, shut the door by which they had retired, 
and turning the huge key, took it from the lock and 
put it into his girdle, — an appendage which gave 
him still more perfectly the air of some old miser, 
who cannot journey in comfort unless he bear with 
him the key of his treasure closet. 

With slow and pensive step, and eyes fixed on the 
ground, Louis now paced towards Quentin Durward, 
who, expecting his share of the royal displeasure, 
viewed his approach with no little anxiety. 

“ Thou hast done wrong,” said the King, raising 


202 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


his eyes, and fixing them firmly on him when he 
had come within a yard of him, — “ thou hast done 
foul wrong, and deservest to die. — Speak not a 
word in defence ! — What hadst thou to do with 
Dukes or Princesses ? — what with any thing but 
my order ? ” 

“ So please your Maiesty,” said the young soldier, 
“ what could I do ? ” 

“ What couldst thou do when thy post was forcibly 
passed ? ” answered the King, scornfully, — “ What 
is the use of that weapon on thy shoulder ? Thou 
shouldst have levelled thy piece, and if the pre- 
sumptuous’ rebel did not retire on the instant, he 
should have died within this very hall ! Go — pass 
into these farther apartments. In the first thou 
wilt find a large staircase, which leads to the inner 
Bailley ; there thou wilt find Oliver Dain. Send 
him to me — do thou begone to thy quarters. — As 
thou dost value thy life, be not so loose of thy tongue 
as thou hast been this day slack of thy hand.” 

Well pleased to escape so easily, yet with a soul 
which revolted at the cold-blooded cruelty which 
the King seemed to require from him in the exe- 
cution of his duty, Durward took the road indicated, 
hastened down stairs, and communicated the royal 
pleasure to Oliver, who was waiting in the court be- 
neath. The wily tonsor bowed, sighed, and smiled, 
as, with a voice even softer than ordinary, he wished 
the youth a good evening ; and they parted, Quentin 
to his quarters, and Oliver to attend the King. 

In this place, the Memoirs which we have chielly 
followed in compiling this true history, were un- 
happily defective ; for, founded chiefly on informa- 
tion supplied by Quentin, they do not convey the 
purport of the dialogue which, in his absence, took 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


203 


place between the King and his secret counsellor. 
Fortunately, the Library of Hautlieu contains a 
manuscript copy of the Chronique Scandaleuse of 
Jean de Troyes, (0) much more full than that which 
has been printed ; to which are added several curi- 
ous memoranda, which we incline to think must have 
been written down by Oliver himself after the death 
of his master, and before he had the happiness to 
be rewarded with the halter which he had so long 
merited. From this we have been able to extract 
a very full account of the obscure favourite’s con- 
versation with Louis upon the present occasion, 
which throws a light upon the policy of that 
Prince, which we might otherwise have sought for 
in vain. 

When the favourite attendant entered the Gal- 
lery of Roland, he found the King pensively seated 
upon the chair which his daughter had left some 
minutes before. Well acquainted with his temper, 
he glided on with his noiseless step until he had 
just crossed the line of the King’s sight, so as to 
make him aware of his presence, then shrank mod- 
estly backward and out of sight, until he should 
be summoned to speak or to listen. The Monarch’s 
first address was an unpleasant one : — “ So, Oliver, 
your fine schemes are melting like snow before the 
south wind ! — I pray to our Lady of Embrun that 
they resemble not the ice-heaps of which the Swit- 
zer churls tell such stories, and come rushing down 
upon our heads.” 

“ I have heard with concern that all is not well, 
Sire,” answered Oliver. 

“Not well!” exclaimed the King, rising and 
hastily marching up and down the gallery, — “ All 
is ill, man — and as ill nearly as possible ; — so much 


204 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


for thy fond romantic advice, that I, of all men, 
should become a protector of distressed damsels ! 
I tell thee Burgundy is arming, and on the eve of 
closing an alliance with England. And Edward, 
who hath his hands idle at home, will pour his thou- 
sands upon us through that unhappy gate of Calais. 
Singly, I might cajole or defy them ; but united, 
united — and with the discontent and treachery of 
that villain Saint Paul ! — All thy fault, Oliver, who 
counselled me to receive the women, and to use the 
services of that damned Bohemian to carry mes- 
sages to their vassals.” 

“ My liege,” said Oliver, “ you know my reasons. 
The Countess’s domains lie between the frontiers 
of Burgundy and Flanders — her castle is almost 
impregnable — her rights over neighbouring estates 
are such as, if well supported, cannot but give much 
annoyance to Burgundy, were the lady but wedded 
to one who should be friendly to France.” 

“ It is, it is a tempting bait,” said the King ; 
“ and could we have concealed her being here, we 
might have arranged such a marriage for this rich 
heiress, as would have highly profited France. — 
But that cursed Bohemian, how couldst thou re- 
commend such a heathen hound for a commission 
which required trust ? ” 

“ Please you,” said Oliver, “ to remember, it was 
your Majesty’s self who trusted him too far — much 
farther than I recommended. He would have borne 
a letter trustily enough to the Countess’s kinsman, 
telling him to hold out her castle, and promising 
speedy relief ; but your Highness must needs put 
his prophetic powers to the test ; and thus he be- 
came possessed of secrets which were worth betray- 
ing to Duke Charles.” 


QUENTIN . DURWARD. 


20; 


“ I am ashamed, I am ashamed,” — said Louis. 
"And yet, Oliver, they say that these heathen 
people are descended from the sage Chaldeans, who 
did read the mysteries of the stars in the plains of 
Shinar.” 

Well aware that his master, with all his acute- 
ness and sagacity, was but the more prone to be 
deceived by soothsayers, astrologers, diviners, and 
all that race of pretenders to occult science, and that 
he even conceived himself to have some skill in these 
arts, Oliver dared to press this point no farther; 
and only observed that the Bohemian had been a 
bad prophet on his own account, else he would have 
avoided returning to Tours, and saved himself from 
the gallows he had merited. 

“ It often happens that those who are gifted with 
prophetic knowledge,” answered Louis, with much 
gravity, “ have not the power of foreseeing those 
events in which they themselves are personally 
interested.” 

“ Under your Majesty’s favour,” replied the con- 
fidant, “ that seems as if a man could not see his 
own hand by means of the candle which he holds, 
and which shows him every other object in the 
apartment.” 

“ He cannot see his own features by the light 
which shows the faces of others,” replied Louis ; 
“and that is the more faithful illustration of the 
case. — But this is foreign to my purpose at present. 
The Bohemian hath had his reward, and peace be 
with him. — - But these ladies — Not only does Bur- 
gundy threaten us with war for harbouring them, 
but their presence is like to interfere with my pro- 
jects in my own family. My simple cousin of 
Orleans hath barely seen this damsel, and I venture 


20 6 


QUENTIN pURWARD. 


to prophesy that the sight of her is like to make 
him less pliable in the matter of his alliance with 
Joan.” 

“ Your Majesty,” answered .the counsellor, “ may 
send the ladies of Croye back to Burgundy, and so 
make your peace with the Duke. Many might 
murmur at this as dishonourable ; but if necessity 
demands the sacrifice ” 

“ If profit demanded the sacrifice, Oliver, the 
sacrifice should be made without hesitation,” an- 
swered the King. “ I am an old experienced sal- 
mon, and use not to gulp the angler’s hook because 
it is busked up with a feather called honour. But 
what is worse than a lack of honour, there were, in 
returning those ladies to Burgundy, a forfeiture of 
those views of advantage which moved us to give 
them an asylum. It were* heart-breaking to renounce 
the opportunity of planting a friend to ourselves, 
and an enemy to Burgundy, in the very centre of 
his dominions, and so near to the discontented cities 
of Flanders. Oliver, I cannot relinquish the advan- 
tages which our scheme of marrying the maiden to 
a friend of our own house seems to hold out to us.” 

“ Your Majesty,” said Oliver, after a moment’s 
thought, “ might confer her hand on some right 
trusty friend, who would take all blame on himself, 
and serve your Majesty secretly, while in public 
you might disown him.” 

“ And where am I to find such a friend ? ” said 
Louis. “ Were I to bestow her upon any one of 
our mutinous and ill-ruled nobles, would it not be 
rendering him independent ? and hath it not been 
my policy for years to prevent them from becoming 
so ? — Dunois indeed — him, and him only, I might 
perchance trust. — He would fight for the crown of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


20 7 


France, whatever were his condition. But honours 
and wealth change men’s natures — Even Dunois I 
will not trust.” 

“ Your Majesty may find others,” said Oliver, 
in his smoothest manner, and in a tone more insi- 
nuating than that which he usually employed in 
conversing with the King, who permitted him con- 
siderable freedom ; “ men dependent entirely on 
your own grace and favour, and who could no more 
exist without your countenance than without sun 
or air — men rather of head than of action — men 
who ” 

“Men who resemble thyself, ha!” said King 
Louis. — “No, Oliver, by my faith that arrow was 
too rashly shot ! — What ! because I indulge thee 
with my confidence, and let thee, in reward, poll 
my lieges a little now and then, dost thou think it 
makes thee fit to be the husband of that beautiful 
vision, and a Count of the highest class to the 
boot ? — thee — thee, I say, low-born and lower- 
bred, whose wisdom is at best a sort of cunning, and 
whose courage is more than doubtful ? ” 

“ Your Majesty imputes to me a presumption of 
which I am not guilty, in supposing me to aspire so 
highly,” said Oliver. 

“ I am glad to hear it, man,” replied the King ; 
“and truly, I hold your judgment the healthier 
that you disown such a reverie. But methinks thy 
speech sounded strangely in that key. — Well, to 
return. — I dare not wed this beauty to one of my 
subjects — I dare not return her to Burgundy — I 
dare not transmit her to England, or to Germany, 
where she is likely to become the prize of some 
one more apt to unite with Burgundy than with 
France, and who would be more ready to discourage 


208 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


the honest malecontents in Ghent and Liege, than 
to yield them that wholesome countenance which 
might always find Charles the Hardy enough to 
exercise his valour on, without stirring from his 
own domains — and they were in so ripe a humour 
for insurrection, the men of Liege in especial, that 
they alone, well heated and supported, would find 
my fair cousin work for more than a twelvemonth ; 
— and backed by a warlike Count of Croye, — 0, 
Oliver ! the plan is too hopeful to be resigned with- 
out a struggle. — Cannot thy fertile brain devise 
some scheme ? ” 

Oliver paused for a long time — then at last 
replied, “ What if a bridal could be accomplished 
betwixt Isabelle of Croye, and young Adolphus, the 
Duke of Gueldres ? ” 

“ What,” said the King, in astonishment ; “ sa- 
crifice her, and she, too, so lovely a creature, to the 
furious wretch who deposed, imprisoned, and has 
often threatened to murder, his own father! — No, 
Oliver, no — that were too unutterably cruel even 
for you and me, who look so steadfastly to our 
excellent end, the peace and the welfare of France, 
and respect so little the means by which it is 
attained. Besides, he lies distant from us, and is 
detested by the people of Ghent and Liege. — No, 
no — I will none of Adolphus of Gueldres — think 
on some one else.” 

“ My invention is exhausted, Sire,” said the coun- 
sellor; “lean remember no one who, as husband 
to the Countess of Croye, would be likely to answer 
your Majesty’s views. He must unite such various 
qualities — a friend to your Majesty — #n enemy to 
Burgundy — of policy enough to conciliate the 
Gauntois and Liegeois, and of valour sufficient to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


209 


defend his little dominions against the power of 
Duke Charles — Of noble birth besides — that your 
Highness insists upon ; and of excellent and most 
virtuous character, to the boot of all.” 

“ Nay, Oliver,” said the King, “ I leaned not so 
much — that is, so very much, on character ; but 
methinks Isabelle’s bridegroom should be something 
less publicly and generally abhorred than Adolphus 
of Gueldres. — For example, since I myself must sug- 
gest some one, — why not William de la Marck ?” 

“ On my halidome, Sire,” said Oliver, “ I can- 
not complain of your demanding too high a stan- 
dard of moral excellence in the happy man, if the 
Wild Boar of Ardennes can serve your turn. De 
la Marck ! — why, he is the most notorious robber 
and murderer on all the frontiers — excommuni- 
cated by the Pope for a thousand crimes.” 

“We will have him released from the sentence, 
friend Oliver — Holy Church is merciful.” 

“ Almost an outlaw,” continued Oliver, “ and 
under the ban of the Empire, by an ordinance of 
the Chamber at Ratisbon.” 

“ We will have the ban taken off, friend Oliver,” 
continued the King, in the same tone ; “ the Im- 
perial Chamber will hear reason.” 

“ And admitting him to be of noble birth,” said 
Oliver, “he hath the manners, the face, and the 
outward form, as well as the heart, of a Flemish 
butcher — She will never accept of him.” 

“ His mode of wooing, if I mistake him not,” 
said Louis, “ will render it difficult for her to make 
a choice.” 

“I was far wrong indeed, when I taxed your Ma- 
jesty with being over scrupulous,” said the coun- 
sellor. “ On my life, the crimes of Adolphus are 


210 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


but virtues to those of De la Marck ! — And then 
how is he to meet with his bride ? — Your Majesty 
knows he dare not stir far from his own Forest of 
Ardennes.” 

“ That must be cared for,” said the King ; “ and, 
in the first place, the two ladies must be acquainted 
privately that they can be no longer maintained at 
this Court, except at the expense of a war between 
France and Burgundy-, and that, unwilling to de- 
liver them up to my fair cousin of Burgundy, I 
am desirous they should' secretly depart from my 
dominions.” 

“ They will demand to be conveyed to England,” 
said Oliver ; “ and we shall have her return to 
Flanders with an island lord, having a round fair 
face, long brown hair, and three thousand archers at 
his back.” 

“ No — no,” replied the King ; “ we dare not (you 
understand me) so far offend our fair cousin of Bur- 
gundy as to let her pass to England — It would 
bring his displeasure as certainly as our maintain- 
ing her here. No, no — to the safety of the Church 
alone we will venture to commit her ; and the ut- 
most we can do is to connive at the Ladies Hame- 
line and Isabelle de Croye departing in disguise, 
and with a small retinue, to take refuge with the 
Bishop of Liege, who will place the fair Isabelle 
for the time, under the safeguard of a convent.” 

“ And if that convent protect her from William 
de la Marck, when he knows of your Majesty’s fav- 
ourable intentions, I have mistaken the man.” 

“ Why, yes,” answered the King, “ thanks to our 
secret supplies of money, De la Marck hath to- 
gether a handsome handful of as unscrupulous 
soldiery as ever were outlawed ; with which he 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


21 1 


contrives to maintain himself among the woods, in 
such a condition as makes him formidable both to 
the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Liege. He 
lacks nothing but some territory which he may call 
his own ; and this being so fair an opportunity to 
establish himself by marriage, I think that, Pasques- 
dieu ! he will find means to win and wed, without 
more than a hint on our part. The Duke of Bur- 
gundy will then have such a thorn in his side, as 
no lancet of our time will easily cut out from his 
flesh. The Boar of Ardennes, whom he has already 
outlawed, strengthened by the possession of that 
fair lady’s lands, castles, and seigniory, with the 
discontented Liegeois to boot, who, by my faith, 
will not be in that case unwilling to choose him for 
their captain and leader — let Charles then think of 
wars with France when he will, or rather let him 
bless his stars if she war not with him. — How dost 
thou like the scheme, Oliver, ha ? ” 

“ Rarely,” said Oliver, “ save and except the 
doom which confers that lady on the Wild Boar of 
Ardennes. — By my halidome, saving in a little out- 
ward show of gallantry, Tristan, the Provost-Marshal, 
were the more proper bridegroom of the two.” 

“ Anon thou didst propose Master Oliver the 
barber,” said Louis ; “ but friend Oliver and gossip 
Tristan, though excellent men in the way of coun- 
sel and execution, are not the stuff that men make 
Counts of. Know you not that the burghers of 
Flanders value birth in other men, precisely be- 
cause they have it not themselves ? — A plebeian 
mob ever desire an aristocratic leader. Yonder 
Ked, or Cade, or — how called they him ? — in Eng- 
land, was fain to lure his rascal rout after him, by 
pretending to the blood of the Mortimers. William 


212 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


de la Marck comes of the blood of the princes of 
Sedan, as noble as mine own. — And now to busi- 
ness. I must determine the ladies of Croye to a 
speedy and secret flight, under sure guidance. This 
will be easily done — we have but to hint the alter- 
native of surrendering them to Burgundy. Thou 
must find means to let William de la Marck know 
of their motions, and let him choose his own time 
and place to push his suit. I know a fit person to 
travel with them.” 

“ May I ask to whom your Majesty commits such 
an important charge ? ” asked the tonsor. 

“To a foreigner, be sure,” replied the King; 
“ one who has neither kin nor interest in France, 
to interfere with the execution of my pleasure ; and 
who knows too little of the country, and its factions, 
to suspect more of my purpose than I choose to tell 
him — in a word, I design to employ the young Scot 
who sent you hither but now.” 

Oliver paused in a manner which seemed to im- 
ply a doubt of the prudence of the choice, and then 
added, “ Your Majesty has reposed confidence in 
that stranger boy earlier than is your wont.” 

“ I have my reasons,” answered the King. — 
“ Thou knowest ” (and he crossed himself) “ my de- 
votion for the blessed Saint Julian. I had been say- 
ing my orisons to that holy Saint late in the night 
before last, wherein (as he is known to be the 
guardian of travellers) I made it my humble peti- 
tion that he would augment my household with 
such wandering foreigners, as might best establish 
throughout our kingdom unlimited devotion to our 
will; and I vowed to the good Saint in guerdon, 
that I would, in his name, receive, and relieve, and 
maintain them.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


213 


“And did Saint Julian,” said Oliver, “send your 
Majesty this long-legged importation from Scotland 
in answer to your prayers ? ” 

Although the barber, who well knew that his 
master had superstition in a large proportion to his 
want of religion, and that on such topics nothing 
was more easy than to offend him — although, I say, 
he knew the royal weakness, and therefore carefully 
put the preceding question in the softest and most 
simple tone of voice, Louis felt the innuendo which 
it contained, and regarded the speaker with high 
displeasure. 

“Sirrah,” he said, “thou art well called Oliver 
the Devil, who darest thus to sport at once with 
thy master and with the blessed Saints. I tell 
thee, wert thou one grain less necessary to me, I 
would have thee hung up on yonder oak before the 
Castle, as an example to all who scoff at things 
holy ! — Know, thou infidel slave, that mine eyes 
were no sooner closed, than the blessed Saint Ju- 
lian was visible to me, leading a young man, whom 
he presented to me, saying, that his fortune should 
be to escape the sword, the cord, the river, and to 
bring good fortune to the side which he should 
espouse, and to the adventures in which he should 
be engaged. I walked out on the succeeding morn- 
ing, and I met with this youth, whose image I had 
seen in my dream. In his own country he hath 
escaped the sword, amid the massacre of his whole 
family, and here, within the brief compass of two 
days, he hath been strangely rescued from drown- 
ing and from the gallows, and hath already, on a 
particular occasion, as I but lately hinted to thee, 
been of the most material service to me. I receive 
him as sent hither by Saint Julian, to serve me in 


214 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


the most difficult, the most dangerous, and even the 
most desperate services.” 

The King, as he thus expressed himself, doffed 
his hat, and selecting from the numerous little 
leaden figures with which the hat-band was gar- 
nished that which represented Saint Julian, he 
placed it on the table, as was often his wont when 
some peculiar feeling of hope, or perhaps of remorse, 
happened to thrill across his mind, and, kneeling 
down before it, muttered, with an appearance of 
profound devotion, “ Scincte Juliane, adsis precibus 
nostris ! Ora , ora, pro nobis ! ” 

This was one of those ague-fits of superstitious 
devotion which often seized on Louis in such ex ? 
traordinary times and places, that they gave one of 
the most sagacious Mon arch s who ever reigned, the 
appearance of a madman, or at least of one whose 
mind was shaken by some deep consciousness of 
guilt. 

While he was thus employed, his favourite looked 
at him with an expression of sarcastic contempt, 
which he scarce attempted to disguise. Indeed it 
was one of this man’s peculiarities, that, in his whole 
intercourse with his master, he laid aside that fond- 
ling, purring affectation of officiousness and humil- 
ity, which distinguished his conduct to others ; and 
if he still bore some resemblance to a cat, it was 
when the animal is on its guard, — watchful, ani- 
mated, and alert for sudden exertion. The cause of 
this change was probably Oliver’s consciousness, that 
his master was himself too profound a hypocrite not 
to see through the hypocrisy of others. 

“ The features of this youth, then, if I may pre- 
sume to speak,” said Oliver, “ resemble those of him 
whom your dream exhibited ? ” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


215 


“ Closely and intimately,” said the King, whose 
imagination, like that of superstitious people in 
general, readily imposed upon itself — “I have 
had his horoscope cast, besides, by Galeotti Marti- 
valle, and I have plainly learned, through his art 
and mine own observation, that, in many respects, 
this unfriended youth has his destiny under the 
same constellation with mine.” 

Whatever Oliver might think of the causes thus 
boldly assigned for the preference of an inexperi- 
enced stripling, he dared make no farther objections, 
well knowing that Louis, who, while residing in 
exile, had bestowed much of his attention on the 
supposed science of Judicial astrology, would listen 
to no raillery of any kind which impeached his skill. 
He therefore only replied, that he trusted the 
youth would prove faithful in the discharge of a 
task so delicate. 

“We will take care he hath no opportunity to 
be otherwise,” said Louis ; “ for he shall be privy 
to nothing, save that he is sent to escort the Ladies 
of Croye to the residence of the Bishop of Liege. 
Of the probable interference of William de la Marck, 
he shall know as little as they themselves. None 
shall know that secret but the guide ; and Tristan 
or thou must find one fit for our purpose.” 

“ But in that case,” said Oliver, “ judging of him 
from his country and his appearance, the young 
man is like to stand to his arms so soon as the Wild 
Boar comes on them, and may not come off so easily 
from the tusks as he did this morning.” 

“ If they rend his heart-strings,” said Louis, com- 
posedly, “ Saint Julian, blessed be his name! can 
send me another in his stead. It skills as little 
that the messenger is slain after his duty is exe* 


2l6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


cuted, as that the flask is broken when the wine is 
drunk out. — Meanwhile, we must expedite the 
ladies’ departure, and then persuade the Count de 
Crkvecoeur that it has taken place without our con- 
nivance ; we having been desirous to restore them 
to the custody of our fair cousin, which their sudden 
departure has unhappily prevented.” 

“ The Count is perhaps too wise, and his master 
too prejudiced, to believe it.” 

“ Holy Mother ! ” said Louis, “ what unbelief 
would that be in Christian men ! But, Oliver, they 
shall believe us. We will throw into our whole 
conduct towards our fair cousin, Duke Charles; 
such thorough and unlimited confidence, that, not 
to believe we have been sincere with him in every 
respect, he must be worse than an infidel. I tell 
thee, so convinced am I that I could make Charles 
of Burgundy think of me in every respect as I would 
have him, that, were it necessary for silencing his 
doubts, I would ride unarmed, and on a palfrey, to 
visit him in his tent, with no better guard about me 
than thine own simple person, friend Oliver.” 

“ And I,” said Oliver, “ though I pique not my- 
self upon managing steel in any other shape than 
that of a razor, would rather charge a Swiss bat- 
talion of pikes, than I would accompany your High- 
ness upon such a visit of friendship to Charles of 
Burgundy, when he hath so many grounds to be 
well assured that there is enmity in your Majesty’s 
bosom against him.” 

“Thou art a fool, Oliver,” said the King, “with 
all thy pretensions to wisdom — and art not aware 
that deep policy must often assume the appearance 
of the most extreme simplicity, as courage occasion- 
ally shrouds itself under the show of modest timid- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


217 


ity. Were it needful, full surely would I do what 
I have said — the Saints always blessing our pur- 
pose, and the heavenly constellations bringing 
round, in their course, a proper conjuncture for 
such an exploit.” 

In these words did King Louis XI. give the first 
hint of the extraordinary resolution which he after- 
wards adopted, in order to dupe his great rival, the 
subsequent execution of which had very nearly 
proved his own ruin. 

He parted with his counsellor, and presently af- 
terwards went to the apartment of the Ladies of 
Croye. Few persuasions beyond his mere license 
would have been necessary to determine their re- 
treat from the Court of France, upon the first hint 
that they might not be eventually protected against 
the Duke of Burgundy ; but it was not so easy to 
induce them to choose Liege for the place of their 
retreat. They entreated and requested to be trans- 
ferred to Bretagne or Calais, where, under protec- 
tion of the Duke of Bretagne, or King of England, 
they might remain in a state of safety, until the 
Sovereign of Burgundy should relent in his rigorous 
purpose towards them. But neither of these places 
of safety at all suited the plans of Louis, and he 
was at last successful in inducing them to adopt 
that which did coincide with them. 

The power of the Bishop of Liege for their de- 
fence w*as not to be questioned, since his ecclesias- 
tical dignity gave him the means of protecting the 
fugitives against all Christian princes ; while, on 
the other hand, his secular forces, if not numerous, 
seemed at least sufficient to defend his person, and 
all under his protection, from any sudden violence. 
The difficulty was to reach the little Court of the 


218 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Bishop in safety; but for this Louis promised to 
provide, by spreading a report that the Ladies of 
Croye had escaped from Tours by night, under fear 
of being delivered up to the Burgundian Envoy, 
and had taken their flight towards Bretagne. He 
also promised them the attendance of a small, but 
faithful retinue, and letters to the commanders of 
such towns and fortresses as they might pass, with 
instructions to use every means for protecting and 
assisting them in their journey. 

The Ladies of Croye, although internally resent- 
ing the ungenerous and discourteous manner in 
which Louis thus deprived them of the promised 
asylum in his Court, were so far from objecting to 
the hasty departure which he proposed, that they 
even anticipated his project, by entreating to be 
permitted to set forward that same night. The 
Lady Hameline was already tired of a place where 
there were neither admiring courtiers, nor festivi- 
ties to be witnessed ; and the Lady Isabelle thought 
she had seen enough to conclude, that were the 
temptation to become a little stronger, Louis XI., 
not satisfied with expelling them from his Court, 
would not hesitate to deliver her up to her. irritated 
Suzerain, the Duke of Burgundy. Lastly, Louis 
himself readily acquiesced in their hasty departure, 
anxious to preserve peace with Duke Charles, and 
alarmed lest the beauty of Isabelle should interfere 
with and impede the favourite plan which he had 
formed, for bestowing the hand of his daughter 
Joan upon his cousin of Orleans. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE JOURNEY. 

Talk not of Kings — I scorn the poor comparison ; 

I am a sage, and can command the elements — 

At least men think I can ; and on that thought 
I found unbounded empire. 

Albumazar. 

Occupation and adventure might be said to crowd 
upon the young Scottishman with the force of a 
spring-tide ; for he was speedily summoned to the 
apartment of his Captain, the Lord Crawford, where, 
to his a'stonishment, he again beheld the King. After 
a few words respecting the honour and trust which 
were about to be reposed in him, which made 
Quentin internally afraid that they were again about 
to propose to him such a watch as he had kept upon 
the Count of Crkvecoeur, or perhaps some duty still 
more repugnant to his feelings, he was not relieved 
merely, but delighted, with hearing that he was 
selected, with the assistance of four others under 
his command, one of whom was a guide, to escort 
the Ladies of Croye to the little Court of their rela- 
tive, the Bishop of Liege, in the safest and most 
commodious, and, at the same time, in the most 
secret manner possible. A scroll was given him, in 
which were set down directions for his guidance, for 
the places of halt, (generally chosen in obscure vil- 
lages, solitary monasteries, and situations remote 


220 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


from towns,) and for the general precautions which 
he was to attend to, especially on approaching the 
frontier of Burgundy. He was sufficiently supplied 
with instructions what he ought to say and do to 
sustain the personage of the Maitre d’Hotel of two 
English ladies of rank, who had been on a pilgrim- 
age to Saint Martin of Tours, and were about to 
visit the holy city of Cologne, and worship the relics 
of the sage Eastern Monarchs, who came to adore the 
nativity of Bethlehem ; for under that character the 
Ladies of Croye were to journey. 

Without having any defined notions of the cause 
of his delight, Quentin Durward’s heart leapt for 
joy at the idea of approaching thus nearly to the 
person of the Beauty of the Turret, and in a situa- 
tion which entitled him to her confidence, since her 
protection was in so great a degree intrusted to his 
conduct and courage. He felt no doubt in his own 
mind, that he should be her successful guide through 
the hazards of her pilgrimage. Youth seldom thinks ! 
of dangers, and bred up free, and fearless, and self- 
confiding, Quentin, in particular, only thought of 
them to defy them. He longed to be exempted 
from the restraint of the Royal presence, that he 
might indulge the secret glee with which such un- 
expected tidings filled him, and which prompted 
him to bursts of delight which would have been 
totally unfitting for that society. 

But Louis had not yet done with him. That 
cautious Monarch had to consult a counsellor of a 
different stamp from Oliver le Diable, and who was 
supposed to derive his skill from the superior and 
astral intelligences, as men, judging from their fruits, 
were apt to think the counsels of Oliver sprung from 
the Devil himself. 


QUENTIN EUR WARD. 


221 


Louis therefore led the way, followed by the im- 
patient Quentin, to a separate tower of the Castle 
of Plessis, in which was installed, in no small ease 
and splendour, the celebrated astrologer, poet, and 
philosopher, Galeotti Marti, or Martius, or Marti- 
valle, a native of Narni, in Italy, the author of the 
famous Treatise, De Vulgo Incognitis } and the 
subject of his age’s admiration, and of the panegy- 
rics of Pa ulus Jovius. He had long flourished at 
the Court of the celebrated Matthias Corvinus, 
King of Hungary, from whom he was in some 
measure decoyed by Louis, who grudged the Hun- 
garian Monarch the society and the counsels of a 
sage, accounted so skilful in reading the decrees of 
Heaven. 

Martivalle was none of those ascetic, withered, 
pale professors of mystic learning of those days, 
who bleared their eyes over the midnight furnace, 
and macerated their bodies by outwatching the 
polar bear. He indulged in all courtly pleasures, 
and, until he grew corpulent, had excelled in all 
martial sports and gymnastic exercises, as well as 
in the use of arms ; insomuch, that Janus Panno- 
nius has left a Latin epigram, upon a wrestling 
match betwixt Galeotti and a renowned champion 
of that art, in the presence of the Hungarian King 
and Court, in which the Astrologer was completely 
victorious. 

The apartments of this courtly and martial sage 
were far more splendidly furnished than any which 
Quentin had yet seen in the royal palace ; and the 
carving and ornamented wood-work of his library, as 
well as the magnificence displayed in the tapestries, 
showed the elegant taste of the learned Italian. 

1 Concerning things unknown to the generality of mankind. 


222 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Out of his study one door opened to his sleep- 
ing-apartment, another led to the turret which 
served as his observatory. A large oaken table, 
in the midst of the chamber, was covered with a 
rich Turkey carpet, the spoils of the tent of a Pacha 
after the great battle of Jaiza, where the Astrologer 
had fought abreast with the valiant champion of 
Christendom, Matthias Corvinus. On the table lay 
a variety of mathematical and astrological instru- 
ments, all of the most rich materials and curious 
workmanship. His astrolabe of silver was the gif-t 
of the Emperor of Germany, and his Jacob’s staff (j?) 
of ebony, jointed with gold, and curiously inlaid, 
was a mark of esteem from the reigning Pope. 

There were various other miscellaneous articles 
disposed on the table, or hanging around the walls ; 
amongst others, two complete suits of armour, one 
of mail, the other of plate, both of which from their 
great size, seemed to call the gigantic Astrologer 
their owner ; a Spanish toledo, a Scottish broad- 
sword, a Turkish scimitar, with bows, quivers, and 
other warlike weapons ; musical instruments of sev- 
eral different kinds ; a silver crucifix, a sepulchral 
antique vase, and several of the little brazen Penates 
of the ancient heathens, with other curious nonde- 
script articles, some of which, in the superstitious 
opinions of that period, seemed to be designed for 
magical purposes. The library of this singular 
character was of the same miscellaneous description 
with his other effects. Curious manuscripts of clas- 
sical antiquity lay mingled with the voluminous 
labours of Christian divines, and of those painstak- 
ing sages who professed the chemical science, and 
proffered to guide their students into the most secret 
recesses of nature, by means of the Hermetica] 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


223 


Philosophy. Some were written in the Eastern 
character, and others concealed their sense or non- 
sense under the veil of hieroglyphics and cabalistic 
characters. The whole apartment, and its furniture 
of every kind, formed a scene very impressive on the 
fancy, considering the general belief then indispu- 
tably entertained concerning the truth of the occult 
sciences ; and that effect was increased by the man- 
ners and appearance of the individual himself, who, 
seated in a huge chair, was employed in curiously 
examining a specimen, just issued from the Frank- 
fort press, of the newly invented art' of printing. 

Galeotti Martivalle was a tall, bulky, yet stately 
man, considerably past his prime, and whose youth- 
ful habits of exercise, though still occasionally re- 
sumed, had not been able to contend with his natural 
tendency to corpulence, increased by sedentary 
study, and indulgence in the pleasures of the table. 
His features, though rather overgrown, were digni- 
fied and noble, and a Santon might have envied the 
dark and downward sweep of his long-descending 
beard. His dress was a chamber-robe of the richest 
Genoa velvet, with ample sleeves, clasped with frogs 
of gold, and lined with sables. It was fastened 
round his middle by a broad belt of virgin parch- 
ment, round which were represented in crimson 
characters, the signs of the zodiac. He rose and 
bowed to the King, yet with the air of one to whom 
such exalted society was familiar, and who was not 
at all likely, even in the royal presence, to com- 
promise the dignity then especially affected by the 
pursuers of science. 

“You are engaged, father,” said the King, “and, 
as I think, with this new-fashioned art of multiply- 
ing manuscripts, by the intervention of machinery. 


224 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Can things of such mechanical and terrestrial im- 
port interest the thoughts of one, before whom 
Heaven has unrolled her own celestial volumes ? ” 
“My brother,” replied Martivalle, — “for so the 
tenant of this cell must term even the King of 
France, when he deigns to visit him as a disciple, — 
believe me that, in considering the consequences of 
this invention, I read with as certain augury, as by 
any combination of the heavenly bodies, the most 
awful and portentous changes. When I reflect with 
what slow and limited supplies the stream of science 
hath hitherto descended to us ; how difficult to be 
obtained by those most ardent in its search ; how cer- 
tain to be neglected by all who regard their ease ; 
how liable to be diverted, or altogether dried up, by 
the invasions of barbarism ; can I look forward with- 
out wonder and astonishment, to the lot of a 
succeeding generation, on whom kngwledge will 
descend like the first and second rain, uninterrupted, 
unabated, unbounded ; fertilizing some grounds, and 
overflowing others ; changing the whole form of 
social life; establishing and overthrowing religions ; 

erecting and destroying kingdoms ” 

“ Hold, Galeotti said Louis, — “ shall these 
changes come in our time ? ” 

“ No, my royal brother,” replied Martivalle ; 
“ this invention may be likened to a young tree, 
which is now newly planted, but shall, in succeed- 
ing generations, bear fruit as fatal, yet as precious, 
as that of the Garden of Eden ; the knowledge, 
namely, of good and evil.” 

Louis answered, after a moment’s pause, “Let 
futurity look to what concerns them — we are men 
of this age, and to this age we will confine our care. 
Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, — Tell me. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


225 


hast thou proceeded farther in the horoscope which 
I sent to thee, and of which you made me some 
report ? I have brought the party hither, that you 
may use palmistry, or chiromancy, if such is your 
pleasure. The matter is pressing.” 

The bulky Sage arose from his seat, and, ap- 
proaching the young soldier, fixed on him his keen 
large dark eyes, as if he were in the act of internally 
spelling and dissecting every lineament and feature. 
— Blushing and borne down by this close exami- 
nation on the part of one whose expression was so 
reverent at once and commanding, Quentin bent his 
eyes on the ground, and did not again raise them, 
till in the act of obeying the sonorous command of 
the Astrologer, “Look up and be not afraid, but 
hold forth thy hand.” 

When Martivalle had inspected his palm, accord- 
ing to the form of the mystic arts which he practised, 
he led the King some steps aside. — “ My royal 
brother,” he said, “ the physiognomy of this youth, 
together with the lines impressed on his hand, con- 
firm, in a wonderful degree, the report which I 
founded on his horoscope, as well as that judgment 
which your own proficiency in our sublime arts 
induced you at once to form of him. All promises 
that this youth will be brave and fortunate.” 

“ And faithful ? ” said the King ; “ for valour and 
fortune square not with fidelity.” 

“ And faithful also,” said the Astrologer ; “ for 
there is manly firmness in look and . eye, and his 
linea vitce is deeply marked and clear, which indi- 
cates a true and upright adherence to those who do 
benefit or lodge trust in him. But yet ” 

“But what?” said the King; “Father Galeotti, 
wherefore do you now pause ? ” 


226 QUENTIN DURWALiD. 

“ The ears of Kings,” said the Sage, “ are like 
the palates of those dainty patients, which are un- 
able to endure the bitterness of the drugs necessary 
for their recovery.” 

“ My ears and my palate have no such niceness, ” 
said Louis ; “ let me hear what is useful counsel, 
and swallow what is wholesome medicine. I quarrel 
not with the rudeness of the one, or the harsh taste 
of the other. I have not been cockered in wanton- 
ness or indulgence ; my youth was one of exile and 
suffering. My ears are used to harsh counsel, and 
take no offence at it.” 

“ Then plainly, Sire,” replied Galeotti, “ if you 
have aught in your purposed commission, which — 
which, in short, may startle a scrupulous conscience 
— intrust it not to this youth — at least, not till a 
few years’ exercise in your service has made him as 
unscrupulous as others.” 

“ And is this what you hesitated to speak, my 
good Galeotti ? and didst thou think thy speaking 
it would offend me ? ” said the King. “ Alack, I 
know that thou art well sensible, that the path of 
royal policy cannot be always squared (as that of 
private life ought invariably to be) by the abstract 
maxims of religion and of morality. Wherefore do 
we, the Princes of the earth, found churches and 
monasteries, make pilgrimages, undergo penances, 
and perform devotions, with which others may dis- 
pense, unless it be because the benefit of the public, 
and the welfare of our kingdoms, force us upon mea- 
sures which grieve our consciences as Christians ? 
But Heaven has mercy — the Church, an unbounded 
stock of merits, and the intercession of Our Lady 
of Kmbrun, and the blessed saints, is urgent, ever- 
lasting, and omnipotent.” — He laid his hat on the 




QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


227 


table, and devoutly kneeling before the images 
stuck into the hat- band, repeated, in an earnest tone, 
“ Sancte Huberte, Sancte Juliane, Sancte Martine, 
Sancta Rosalia , Sancti quotquot adestis, orate pro 
me peccatore ! ” He then smote his breast, arose, 
re-assumed his hat, and continued ; — “Be assured, 
good father, that whatever there may be in our 
commission, of the nature at which you have hinted, 
the execution shall not be intrusted to this youth, 
nor shall he be privy to such part of our purpose.” 

“ In this,” said the Astrologer, “ you, my royal 
brother, will walk wisely. — Something may be ap- 
prehended likewise from the rashness of this your 
young commissioner ; a failing inherent in those of 
sanguine complexion. But I hold that, by the rules 
of art, this chance is not to be weighed against the 
other properties discovered from his horoscope and 
otherwise.” 

“ Will this next midnight be a propitious hour 
in which to commence a perilous journey ? ” said the 
King. — “ See, here is your Ephemerides — you see 
the position of the moon in regard to Saturn, and 
the ascendence of Jupiter — That should , argue, me- 
thinks, in submission to your better art, success to 
him who sends forth the expedition at such an 
hour.” 

“To him who sends forth the expedition,” said 
the Astrologer, after a pause, “ this conjunction 
doth indeed promise success ; but, methinks, that 
Saturn being combust, threatens danger and infor- 
tune to the party sent ; whence I infer that the 
errand may be perilous, or even fatal, to those who 
are to journey. Violence and captivity, methinks, 
are intimated in that adverse conjunction.” 

“ Violence and captivity to those who are sent,” 


228 QUENTIN DURWAKD. 

answered the King, “Timt success to the wishes of 
the sender — Runs it not thus, my learned father ? ” 

“ Even so,” replied the Astrologer. 

The King paused, without giving any further 
indication how far this presaging speech (probably 
hazarded by the Astrologer from his conjecture that 
the commission related to some dangerous purpose) 
squared with his real object, which, as the reader 
is aware, was to betray the Countess Isabelle of 
Croye into the hands of William de la March, a 
nobleman indeed of high birth, but degraded by his 
crimes into a leader of banditti, distinguished for his 
turbulent disposition and ferocious bravery. 

The King then pulled forth a paper from his 
pocket, and, ere he gave it to Martivalle, said, in a 
tone which resembled that of an apology — “Learned 
Galeotti, be not surprised, that, possessing in you 
an oracular treasure, superior to that lodged in the 
breast of any now alive, not excepting the great 
Nostradamus himself, I am desirous frequently to 
avail myself of your skill in those doubts and 
difficulties which beset every Prince who hath to 
contend with rebellion within his land, and with 
external enemies, both powerful and inveterate.” 

“ When I was honoured with your request, Sire,” 
said the philosopher, “ and abandoned the Court of 
Buda for that of Plessis, it was with the resolution 
to place at the command of my royal patron what- 
ever my art had, that might be of service to him.” 

“ Enough, good Martivalle — I pray thee attend 
to the import of this question.” — He proceeded to 
read from the paper in his hand : — “A person 
having on hand a weighty controversy, which is 
like to draw to debate either by law or by force of 
arms, is desirous, for the present, to seek aceommoda- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


229 


tion by a personal interview with his antagonist. 
He desires to know what day will be propitious for 
the execution of such a purpose ; also what is likely 
to be the success of such a negotiation, and whether 
his adversary will be moved to answer the confi- 
dence thus reposed in him, with gratitude and 
kindness, or may rather be likely to abuse the op- 
portunity and advantage which such meeting may 
afford him ? ” 

“It is an important question,” said Martivalle, 
when the King had done reading, “ and requires 
that I should set a planetary figure, and give it 
instant and deep consideration.” 

“ Let it be so, my good father in the sciences, 
and thou shalt know what it is to oblige a King of 
France. We are determined, if the constellations 
forbid not, — and our own humble art leads us to 
think that they approve our purpose, — to hazard 
something, even in our own person, to stop these 
anti-Christian wars.” 

“ May the Saints forward your Majesty’s pious 
intent,” said the Astrologer, “ and guard your sacred 
person ! ” 

“ Thanks, learned father. — Here is something, 
the while, to enlarge your curious library.” 

He placed under one of the volumes a small purse 
of gold ; for, economical even in his superstitions, 
Louis conceived the Astrologer sufficiently bound 
to his service by the pensions he had assigned him, 
and thought himself entitled to the use of his skill 
at a moderate rate, even upon great exigencies. 

Louis, having thus, in legal phrase, added a 
refreshing fee to his general retainer, turned from 
him to address Durward. — “Follow me,” he said, 
“ my bonny Scot, as one chosen by Destiny and a 


230 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


Monarch to accomplish a bold adventure. All must 
be got ready, that thou mayst put foot in stirrup the 
very instant the bell of Saint Martin’s tolls twelve. 
One minute sooner, one minute later, were to for- 
feit the favourable aspect of the constellations which 
smile on your adventure.” 

Thus saying, the King left the apartment, fol- 
lowed by his young guardsman : and no sooner were 
they gone, than the Astrologer gave way to very 
different feelings from those which seemed to 
animate him during the royal presence. 

“ The niggardly slave ! ” he said, weighing the 
purse in his hand, — for, being a man of unbounded 
expense, he had almost constant occasion for money, 
— “ The base sordid scullion ! — A coxswain’s wife 
would give more to know that her husband had 
crossed the narrow seas in safety. He acquire any 
tincture of humane letters! — yes, when prowling 
foxes and yelling wolves become musicians. He 
read the glorious blazoning of the firmament ! — ay, 
when sordid moles shall become lynxes. — Post tot 
promissa — after so many promises made, to entice 
me from the Court of the magnificent Matthias, 
where Hun and Turk, Christian and Infidel, the 
Czar of Muscovia and the Cham of Tartary them- 
selves, contended to load me with gifts, — doth he 
think I am to abide in this old Castle, like a bul- 
finch in a cage, fain to sing as oft as he chooses to 
whistle, and all for seed and water? — Hot so — aut 
inveniam viam, aut faciam — f will discover or con- 
trive a remedy. The Cardinal Balue is politic and 
liberal — this query shall to him, and it shall be his 
Eminence’s own fault if the stars speak not as he 
would have them.” 

He again took the despised guerdon, and weighed 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


231 


it in his hand. “ It may be,” he said, “ there is 
some jewel, or pearl of price, concealed in this paltry 
case — I have heard he can be liberal even to 
lavishness, when it suits his caprice oT interest.” 

He emptied the purse, which contained neither 
more nor less than ten gold pieces. The indigna- 
tion of the Astrologer was extreme. — “ Thinks he 
that for such paltry rate of hire I will practise that 
celestial science which I have studied with the Ar- 
menian Abbot of Istrahoff, who had not seen the 
sun for forty years, — with the Greek Dubravius, 
who is said to have raised the dead, — and have 
even visited the Scheik Ebn Hali in his cave in the 
deserts of Thebais ? — No, by Heaven! — he that 
contemns art shall perish through his own igno- 
rance. Ten pieces ! — a: pittance which I am half 
ashamed to offer to Toinette, to buy her new breast- 
laces.” 

So saying, the indignant Sage nevertheless 
plunged the contemned pieces of gold into a large 
pouch which he wore at his girdle, which Toinette, 
and other abettors of lavish expense, generally con- 
trived to empty fully faster than the philosopher, 
with all his art, could find the means of filling . 1 


1 Note II. — Galeotti. 




CHAPTER XIV. 

THE JOURNEY. 

I see thee yet, fair France — thou favour’d land 
Of art and nature — thou art still before me ; 

Thy sons, to whom their labour is a sport, 

So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute ; 

Thy sun-burnt daughters, with their laughing eyes 
And glossy raven-locks. But, favour’d France, 

Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell, 

In ancient times as now. 

Anonymous. 

Avoiding all conversation with any one, (for such 
was his charge,) Quentin Durward proceeded hastily 
to array himself in a strong but plain cuirass, with 
thigh and arm-pieces, and placed on his head a 
good steel cap without any visor. To these was 
added a handsome cassock of shamois leather, finely 
dressed, and laced down the seams with some em- 
broidery, such as might become a superior officer in 
a noble household. 

These were brought to his apartment by Oliver, 
who, with his quiet, insinuating smile and manner, 
acquainted him that his uncle had been summoned 
to mount guard, purposely that he might make no 
enquiries concerning these mysterious movements. 

‘‘Your excuse will he made to your kinsman/ 
said Oliver, smiling again ; “ and, my dearest son, 
when you return safe from the execution of this 
pleasing trust, I doubt not you will be found worthy 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


233 


of such promotion as will dispense with your ac- 
counting for your motions to any one, while it will* 
place you at the head of those who must render an 
account of theirs to you.” 

So spoke Oliver le Diable, calculating, probably, 
in his own mind, the great chance there was that 
the poor youth whose hand he squeezed affection- 
ately as he spoke, must necessarily encounter death 
or captivity in the commission intrusted to his 
charge. He added to his fair words a small purse 
of gold, to defray necessary expenses on the road, 
as a gratuity on the King’s part. 

At a few minutes before twelve at midnight, 
Quentin, according to his directions, proceeded to 
the second court-yard, and paused under the Dau- 
phin’s Tower, which, as the reader knows, was as- 
signed for the temporary residence of the Countesses 
of Croye. He found, at this place of rendezvous, 
the men and horses appointed to compose the reti- 
nue, leading two sumpter mules already loaded 
with baggage, and holding three palfreys for the 
two Countesses and a faithful waiting-woman, with 
a stately war-horse for himself, whose steel-plated 
saddle glanced in the pale moonlight. Not a word 
of recognition was spoken on either side. The men 
sat still in their saddles, as if they were motionless ; 
and by the same imperfect light Quentin saw with 
pleasure that they were all armed, and held long 
lances in their hands. They were only three in 
number ; but one of them whispered to Quentin, 
in a strong Gascon accent, that their guide was to 
join them beyond Tours. 

Meantime, lights glanced to and fro at the lattices 
of the tower, as if there was bustle and preparation 
among its inhabitants. At length, a small door, 


234 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

which led from the bottom of the tower to the 
«ourt, was unclosed, and three females came forth, at- 
tended by a man wrapped in a cloak. They mounted 
in silence the palfreys which stood prepared for 
them, while their attendant on foot led the way, and 
gave the pass-words and signals to the watchful 
guards, whose posts they passed iti. succession. 
Thus they at length reached the exterior of these 
formidable barriers. Here the man on foot, who 
had hitherto acted as their guide, paused, and 
spoke low and earnestly to the two foremost 
females. 

“ May heaven bless you, Sire,” said a voice which 
thrilled upon Quentin Durward’s ear, “ and forgive 
you, even if your purposes be more interested than 
your words express ! To be placed in safety under 
the protection of the good Bishop of Liege, is the 
utmost extent of my desire.” 

The person whom she thus addressed, muttered 
an inaudible answer, and retreated back through 
the barrier-gate, while Quentin thought, that, by 
the moon-glimpse, he recognised in him the King 
himself, whose anxiety for the departure of his 
guests had probably induced him to give his pre- 
sence, in case scruples should arise on their part, 
or difficulties on that of the guards of the Castle. 

When the riders were beyond the Castle, it was 
necessary for some time to ride with great pre- 
caution, in order to avoid the pitfalls, snares, and 
similar contrivances, which were placed for the an- 
noyance of strangers. The Gascon was, however, 
completely possessed of the clew to this labyrinth, 
and in a quarter of an hour’s riding, they found 
themselves beyond the limits of Plessis le Parc, 
and not far distant from the city of Tours. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


235 


The moon, which had now extricated herself from 
the clouds through which she was formerly wading, 
shed a full sea of glorious light upon a landscape 
equally glorious. They saw the princely Loire roll- 
ing his majestic tide through the richest plain in 
France, and sweeping along between banks orna- 
mented with towers and terraces, and with olives 
and vineyards. They saw the walls of the city of 
Tours, the ancient capital of Touraine, raising their 
portal towers and embattle men ts white in the 
moonlight, while, from within their circle, rose 
the immense Gothic mass which the devotion of 
the sainted Bishop Perpetuus erected as early as 
the fifth century, and which the zeal of Charlemagne 
and his successors had enlarged with such architec- 
tural splendour, as rendered it the most magnifi- 
cent church in France. The towers of the church 
of Saint Gatien were also visible, and the gloomy 
strength of the Castle, which was said to have been, 
in ancient times, the residence of the Emperor 
Yalentinian. 

Even the circumstances in which he was placed, 
though of a nature so engrossing, did not prevent 
the wonder and delight with which the young 
Scottishman, accustomed to the waste though im- 
pressive landscape of his own mountains, and the 
poverty even of his country’s most stately scenery, 
looked on a scene, which art and nature seemed to 
have vied in adorning with their richest splendour. 
But he was recalled to the business of the moment 
by the voice of the elder lady, (pitched at least an 
octave higher than those soft tones which bid adieu 
to King Louis,) demanding to speak with the leader 
of the band. Spurring his horse forward, Quentin 
respectfully presented himself to the ladies in that 


236 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


capacity, and thus underwent the interrogatories of 
the Lady Hameline. 

“ What was his name, and what his degree ? ” 

He told both. 

“ Was he perfectly acquainted with the road ? ” 

“ He could not,” he replied, “ pretend to much 
knowledge of the route, but he was furnished with 
full instructions, and he was, at their first resting- 
place, to he provided with a guide, in all respects 
competent to the task of directing their farther 
journey : meanwhile, a horseman who had just 
joined them, and made the number of their guard 
four, was to be their guide for the first stage.” 

“ And wherefore were you selected for such a 
duty, young gentleman?” said the lady — “I am 
told you are the same youth who was lately upon 
guard in the gallery in which we met the Princess 
of France. You seem young and inexperienced 
for such a charge — a stranger, too, in France, and 
speaking the language as a foreigner.” 

“ I am bound to obey the commands of the King, 
madam, but am not qualified to reason on them,*’ 
answered the young soldier. 

“Are you of noble birth?” demanded the same 
querist. 

“ I may safely affirm so, madam,” replied Quentin. 

“And are you not,” said the younger lady, ad- 
dressing him in her turn, but with a timorous ac- 
cent, “ the same whom I saw when I was called to 
wait upon the King at yonder inn ? ” 

Lowering his voice, perhaps from similar feelings 
of timidity, Quentin answered in the affirmative. 

“ Then, methinks, my cousin,” said the Lady 
Isabelle, addressing the Lady Hameline, “ we must 
be safe under this young gentleman’s safeguard ; he 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


237 


looks not, at least, like one to whom the execution 
of a plan of treacherous cruelty upon two helpless 
women could be with safety intrusted.” 

“On my honour, madam,” said Durward, “by 
the fame of my House, by the bones of my ancestry, 
I could not, for France and Scotland laid into one, 
be guilty of treachery or cruelty towards you ! ” 

“ You speak well, young man,” said the Lady 
Hameline ; “ but we are accustomed to hear fair 
speeches from the King of France and his agents. 
It was by these that we were induced, when the 
protection of the Bishop of Liege might have been 
attained with less risk than now, or when we might 
have thrown ourselves on that of Winceslaus of 
Germany, or of Edward of England, to seek refuge 
in France. And in what did the promises of the 
King result ? In an obscure and shameful conceal- 
ing of us, under plebeian names, as a sort of pro- 
hibited wares, in yonder paltry hostelry, when we, 
— who, as thou knowest, Marthon,” (addressing her 
domestic,) “ never put on our head-tire save under 
a canopy, and upon a dais of three degrees, — were 
compelled to attire ourselves, standing on the simple 
floor, as if we had been two milkmaids.” 

Marthon admitted that her lady spoke a most 
melancholy truth. 

“I would that had been the sorest evil, dear 
kinswoman,” said the Lady Isabelle ; “ I could 
gladly have dispensed with state.” 

“ But not with society,” said the elder Countess ; 
“ that, my sweet cousin, was impossible.” 

“I would have dispensed with all, my dearest 
kinswoman,” answered Isabelle, in a voice which 
penetrated to the very heart of her young conductor 
and guard, “with all, for a safe and honourable 


238 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


retirement. I wish not — God knows, I never 
wished — to occasion war betwixt France and my 
native Burgundy, or that lives should be lost for 
such as I am. I only implored permission to retire 
to the Convent of Marmoutier, or to any other 
holy sanctuary.” 

“ You spoke then like a fool, my cousin,” answered 
the elder lady, “ and not like a daughter of my 
noble brother. It is well there is still one alive, who 
hath some of the spirit of the noble House of Croye. 
How should a high-born lady be known from a sun- 
burnt milkmaid, save that spears are broken for the 
one, and only hazel-poles shattered for the other ? 
I tell you, maiden, that while I was in the very 
earliest bloom, scarcely older than yourself, the 
famous Passage of Arms at Haflinghem was held 
in my honour; the challengers were four, the as- 
sailants so many as twelve. It lasted three days ; 
and cost the lives of two adventurous knights, the 
fracture of one back-bone, one collar-bone, three 
legs and two arms, besides flesh-wounds and bruises 
beyond the heralds’ counting ; and thus have the 
ladies of our House ever been honoured. Ah ! had 
you' but half the heart of your noble ancestry, you 
would find means at some Court, where ladies’ love 
and fame in arms are still prized, to maintain a 
tournament, at which your hand should be the prize, 
as was that of your great-grandmother of blessed 
memory, at the spear-running of Strasbourg ; and 
thus should you gain the best lance in Europe, to 
maintain the rights of the House of Croye, both 
against the oppression of Burgundy and the policy 
of France.” 

“ But, fair kinswoman,” answered the younger 
Countess, “ I have been told by my old nurse, that 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


239 


although the Rhinegrave was the best lance at the 
great tournament at Strasbourg, and so won the 
hand of my respected ancestor, yet the match was 
no happy one, as he used often to scold, and some- 
times even to beat, my great-grandmother of blessed 
memory.” 

“ And wherefore not ? ” said the elder Countess, 
in her romantic enthusiasm for the profession of 
chivalry; “why should those victorious arms, ac- 
customed to deal blows when abroad, be bound to 
restrain their energies at home ? A thousand times 
rather would I be beaten twice a-day, by a husband 
whose arm was as much feared by others as by me, 
than be the wife of a coward, who dared neither to 
lift hand to his wife, nor to any one else ! ” 

“ I should wish you joy of such an active mate, 
fair aunt,” replied Isabelle, “ without envying you ; 
for if broken bones be lovely in tourneys, there is 
nothing less amiable in ladies’ bower.” 

“ Nay, but the beating is no necessary conse- 
quence of wedding with a knight of fame in arms,” 
said the Lady Hameline ; “ though it is true that 
our ancestor of blessed memory, the Rhinegrave 
Gottfried, was something rough-tempered, and ad- 
dicted to the use of Rhein wein. — The very perfect 
knight is a lamb among ladies, and a lion among 
lances. There was Thibault of Montigni — God be 
with him ! — he was the kindest soul alive, and not 
only was he never so discourteous as to lift hand 
against his lady, but, by our good dame, he who 
beat all enemies without doors, found a fair foe 
who could belabour him within. — Well, ’twas his 
own fault — he was one of the challengers at the 
Passage of Haflinghem, and so well bestirred himself, 
that, if it had pleased Heaven, and your grandfather, 


240 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


there might have been a lady of Montigni, who had 
used his gentle nature more gently.” 

The Countess Isabelle, who had some reason to 
dread this Passage of Haflinghem, it being a topic 
upon which her aunt was at all times very diffuse, 
suffered the conversation to drop; and Quentin, 
with the natural politeness of one who had been 
gently nurtured, dreading lest his presence might 
be a restraint on their conversation, rode forward to 
join the guide, as if to ask him some questions 
concerning their route. 

Meanwhile, the ladies continued their journey in 
silence, or in such conversation as is not worth nar- 
rating, until day began to break ; and as they had 
then been on horseback for several hours, Quentin, 
anxious lest they should be fatigued, became impa- 
tient to know their distance from the nearest 
resting-place. 

“ I will show it you,” answered the guide, “ in 
half an hour.” 

“ And then you leave us to other guidance ? ” 
continued Quentin. 

“ Even so, Seignior Archer,” replied the man ; 
“ my journeys are always short and straight. — 
When you and others, Seignior Archer, go by the 
bow, I always go by the cord.” 

The moon had by this time long been down, and 
the lights of dawn were beginning to spread bright 
and strong in the east, and to gleam on the bosom . 
of a small lake, on the verge of which they had 
been riding for a short space of time. This lake 
lay in the midst of a wide plain, scattered over with 
single trees, groves, and thickets ; but which might 
be yet termed open, so that objects began to be dis- 
cerned with sufficient accuracy. Quentin cast his 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


241 


eye on the person whom he rode beside, and, under 
the shadow of a slouched overspreading hat, which 
resembled the sombrero of a Spanish peasant, he 
recognised the facetious features of the same Petit- 
Andrd, whose fingers, not long since, had, in concert 
with those of his lugubrious brother, Trois-Eschelles, 
been so unpleasantly active about his throat. — Im- 
pelled by aversion, not altogether unmixed with fear, 
(for in his own country the executioner is regarded 
with almost superstitious horror,) which his late 
narrow escape had not diminished, Durward instinc- 
tively moved his horse’s head to the right, and 
pressing him at the same time with the spur, made 
a demi-volte, which separated him eight feet from 
his hateful companion. 

“ Ho, ho, ho, ho ! ” exclaimed Petit- Andr^ ; “ by 
our Lady of the Grdve, our young soldier remembers 
us of old. — What ! comrade, you bear no malice, I 
trust ? — every one wins his bread in this country. 
No man need be ashamed of having come through 
my hands, for I will do my work with any that 
ever tied a living weight to a dead tree. — And God 
hath given me grace to be such a merry fellow 
withal — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — I could tell you such jests 
I have cracked between the foot of the ladder and 
the top of the gallows, that, by my halidome, I have 
been obliged to do my job rather hastily, for fear 
the fellows should die with laughing, and so shame 
my mystery ! ” 

As he thus spoke, he edged his horse sideways, 
to regain the interval which the Scot had left be- 
tween them, saying at the same time, “ Come, Seig- 
nior Archer, let there be no unkindness betwixt 
us ! — Por my part, I always do my duty without 
malice, and with a light heart, and I never love a 


242 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


man better than when I have put my scant- of- wind 
collar about his neck, to dub him Knight of the 
Order of Saint Patibularius, as the Provost’s Chap- 
lain, the worthy Father Vaconeldiablo, is wont to 
call the Patron Saint of the Provostry.” 

“ Keep back, thou wretched object ! ” exclaimed 
Quentin, as the finisher of the law again sought to 
approach him closer, “ or I shall be tempted to 
teach you the distance that should be betwixt men 
of honour and such an outcast.” 

“ La you there, how hot you are ! ” said the fel- 
low ; “ had you said men of honesty , there had been 
some savour of truth in it ; — but for men of honour , 
good lack, I have to deal with them every day, as 
nearly and closely as I was about to do business with 
you. — But peace be with you, and keep your com- 
pany to yourself. I would have bestowed a flagon 
of Auvernat upon you to wash away every unkind- 
ness — but ’tis like you scorn my courtesy. — Well. 
Be as churlish as you list — I never quarrel with 
my customers — my jerry -come-tumbles, my merry 
dancers, my little playfellows, as Jacques Butcher 
says to his lambs — those, in fine, who, like your 
seigniorship, have H. E. M. P. written on their fore- 
heads — No, no, let them use me as they list, they 
shall have my good service at last — and yourself 
shall see, when you next come under Petit-Andrd’s 
hands, that he knows how to forgive an injury.” 

So saying, and summing up the whole with a 
provoking wink, and such an interjectional tchick 
as men quicken a dull horse with, Petit-Andrd drew 
off to the other side of the path, and left the youth 
to digest the taunts he had treated him with as his 
proud Scottish stomach best might. A strong desire 
had Quentin to have belaboured him while the staff 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


243 


of his lance could hold together ; but he put a re- 
straint on his passion, recollecting that a brawl with 
such a character could be creditable at no time or 
place, and that a quarrel of any kind, on the pre- 
sent occasion, would be a breach of duty, and might 
involve the most perilous consequences. He there- 
fore swallowed his wrath at the ill-timed and pro- 
fessional jokes of Mons. Petit- Andr^, and contented 
himself with devoutly hoping that they had not 
reached the ears of his fair charge, on which they 
could not be supposed to make an impression in 
favour of himself, as one obnoxious to such sarcasms. 
But he was speedily aroused from such thoughts by 
the cry of both the ladies at once, “ Look back — 
look back ! — For the love of Heaven look to your- 
self, and us — we are pursued ” 

Quentin hastily looked back, and saw that two 
armed men were in fact following them, and riding 
at such a pace as must soon bring them up with 
their party. “It can,” he said, “be only some of 
the Provostry making their rounds in the Forest. 
— Do thou look,” he said to Petit-Andr^, “ and see 
what they may be.” 

Petit- Andrd obeyed ; and rolling himself jocosely 
in the saddle after he had made his observations, 
replied, “ These, fair sir, are neither your comrades 
nor mine — neither Archers nor Marshal-men — for I 
think they wear helmets, with visors lowered, and 
gorgets of the same. — A plague upon these gorgets, 
of all other pieces of armour ! — I have fumbled 
with them an hour before I could undo the rivets.” 

“ Do you, gracious ladies,” said Durward, with- 
out attending to Petit-Andrd, “ ride forward — not 
so fast as to raise an opinion of your being in flight, 
and yet fast enough to avail yourself of the impedh 


244 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


ment which I shall presently place between you 
and these men who follow us.” 

The Countess Isabelle looked to their guide, and 
then whispered to her aunt, who spoke to Quentin 
thus — “We have confidence in your care, fair 
Archer, and Will rather abide the risk of whatever 
may chance in your company, than we will go on- 
ward with that man, whose mien is, we think, of 
no good augury.” 

“ Be it as you will, ladies,” said the youth — 
“ There are but two who come after us ; and though 
they be knights, as their arms seem to show, they 
shall, if they have any evil purpose, learn how a 
Scottish gentleman can do his devoir in the pre- 
sence and for the defence of such as you. — Which 
of you there,” he continued, addressing the guards 
whom he commanded, “ is willing to be my com- 
rade, and to break a lance with these gallants?” 

Two of the men obviously faltered in resolution ; 
but the third, Bertrand Guyot, swore, “ that cap de 
diou, were they Knights of King Arthur’s Round 
Table, he would try their mettle, for the honour of 
Gascony.” 

While he spoke, the two knights — for they 
seemed of no less rank — came up with the rear of 
the party, in which Quentin, with his sturdy ad- 
herent, had by this time stationed himself. They 
were fully accoutred in excellent armour of polished 
steel, without any device by which they could be 
distinguished. 

One of them, as they approached, called out to 
Quentin, “Sir Squire, give place — we come to re- 
lieve you of a charge which is above your rank 
and condition. You will do well to leave these 
ladies in our care, who are fitter to wait upon them, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


2 45 


especially as we know that in yours they are little 
better than captives.” 

“ In return to your demand, sirs,” replied Dur- 
ward, “ know, in the first place, that I am discharg- 
ing the duty imposed upon me by my present 
Sovereign ; and next, that however unworthy 
I may be, the ladies desire to abide under my 
protection.” 

“ Out, sirrah ! ” exclaimed one of the champions ; 
“will you, a wandering beggar, put yourself on 
terms of resistance against belted knights ? ” 

“ They are indeed terms of resistance,” said 
Quentin, “ since they oppose your insolent and 
unlawful aggression ; and if there be difference of 
rank between us, which as yet I know not, your 
discourtesy has done it away. Draw your sword, 
or, if you will use the lance, take ground for your 
f oareer.” 

While the knights turned their horses, and rode 
back to the distance of about a hundred and fifty 
yards, Quentin, looking to the ladies, bent low on 
his saddle-bow, as if desiring their favourable re- 
gard, and as they streamed towards him their ker- 
chiefs, in token of encouragement, the two assail- 
ants had gained the distance necessary for their 
charge. 

Calling to the Gascon to bear himself like a man, 
Durward put his steed into motion ; and the four 
horsemen met in full career in the midst of the 
ground which at first separated them. The shock 
was fatal to the poor Gascon; for his adversary, 
aiming at his face, which was undefended by a visor, 
ran him through the eye into the brain, so that he 
fell dead from his horse. 

On the other hand, Quentin, though labouring 


246 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


under the same disadvantage, swayed himself in 
the saddle so dexterously, that the hostile lance, 
slightly scratching his cheek, passed over his right 
shoulder; while his own spear, striking his antag- 
onist fair upon the breast, hurled him to the ground. 
Quentin jumped off, to unhelm his fallen opponent ; 
but the other knight, (who had never yet spoken,) 
seeing the fortune of his companion, dismounted 
still more speedily than Durward, and bestriding 
his friend, who lay senseless, exclaimed, “ In the 
name of God and Saint Martin, mount, good fellow, 
and get thee gone with thy woman’s ware ! — 
Ventre Saint Gris, they have caused mischief 
enough this morning.” 

“ By your leave, Sir Knight,” said Quentin, who 
could not brook the menacing tone in which this 
advice was given, “ I will first see whom I have 
had to do with, and learn who is to answer for the 
death of my comrade.” 

“ That shalt thou never live to know or to tell,” 
answered the Knight. “Get thee back, in peace, 
good fellow. If we were fools for interrupting 
your passage, we have had the worst, for thou hast 
done more evil than the lives of thou and thy whole 
band could repay. — Nay, if thou wilt have it,” (for 
Quentin now drew his sword*, and advanced on 
him,) “ take it with a vengeance ! ” 

So saying, he dealt the Scot such a blow on the 
helmet, as, till that moment, (though bred where 
good blows were plenty,) he had only read of in 
romance. It descended like a thunderbolt, beating 
down the guard which the young soldier had raised 
to protect his head, and, reaching his helmet of 
proof, cut it through so far as to touch his hair 
but without farther injury; while Durward, dizzy, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


247 


stunned, and beaten down on one knee, was for an 
instant at the mercy of the knight, had it pleased 
him to second his blow. But compassion for Quen- 
tin’s youth, or admiration of his courage, or a gene- 
rous love of fair play, made him withhold from 
taking such advantage; while Durward, collecting 
himself, sprung up and attacked his antagonist with 
the energy of one determined to conquer or die, and 
at the same time with the presence of mind neces- 
sary for fighting the quarrel out to the best advan- 
tage. Resolved not again to expose himself to such 
dreadful blows as he had just sustained, he employed 
the advantage of superior agility, increased by the 
comparative lightness of his armour, to harass 
his antagonist, by traversing on all sides, with a 
suddenness of motion and rapidity of attack, against 
which the knight, in his heavy panoply, found it 
difficult to defend himself without much fatigue. 

It was in vain that this generous antagonist 
called aloud to Quentin, “ that there now remained 
no cause of fight betwixt them, and that he was 
loath to be constrained to do him injury ” Listen- 
ing only to the suggestions of a passionate wish to 
redeem the shame of his temporary defeat, Durward 
continued to assail him with the rapidity of light- 
ning — now menacing him with the edge, now with 
the point of his sword — and ever keeping such 
an eye on the motions of his opponent, of whose 
superior strength he had had terrible proof, that he 
was ready to spring backward, or aside, from under 
the blows of his tremendous weapon. 

“ Now the devil be with thee for an obstinate and 
presumptuous fool,” muttered the knight, “ that can- 
not be quiet till thou art knocked on the head ! ” 
So saying, he changed his mode of fighting, col- 


248 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


lected himself as if to stand on the defensive, and 
seemed contented with parrying, instead of return- 
ing, the blows which Quentin unceasingly aimed at 
him, with the internal resolution, that the instant 
when either loss of breath, or any false or careless 
pass of the young soldier, should give an opening, 
he would put an end to the fight by a single blow. 
It is likely he might have succeeded in this artful 
policy, but Fate had ordered it otherwise. 

The duel was still at the hottest, when a large 
party of horse rode up, crying, “ Hold, in the King’s 
name ! ” Both champions stepped back — and Quen- 
tin saw, with surprise, that his Captain, Lord Craw- 
ford, was at the head of the party who had thus 
interrupted their combat. There was also Tristan 
l’Hermite, with two or three of his followers ; mak- 
ing, in all, perhaps twenty horse. 


CHAPTER XY. 


THE GUIDE. 

He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 

And one descended from those dread magicians, 

Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt in Goshen, 

Witlf Israel and her Prophet — matching rod 
With his the sons of Levi’s — and encountering 
Jehovah’s miracles with incantations, 

Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel, 

And those proud sages wept for their first-born, 

As wept the unletter’d peasant. 

Anonymous. 

The arrival of Lord Crawford and his guard put an 
immediate end to the engagement which we endeav- 
oured to describe in the last chapter ; and the 
Knight, throwing off his helmet, hastily gave the old 
lord his sword, saying, “ Crawford, I render myself 
— But hither — and lend me your ear — a word, 
for God’s sake — save the Duke of Orleans ! ” 

“ How ? — what ? — the Duke of Orleans ! ” ex- 
claimed the . Scottish commander, — “ How came 
this, in the name of the foul fiend ? It will ruin 
the callant with the King, for ever and a day. ” 
“Ask no questions,” said Dunois — for it was no 
other than he — “it was all my fault. — See, he 
stirs. I came forth but to have a snatch at yonder 
damsel, and make myself a landed and a married 
man — and see what is come on’t. Keep back your 
canaille — let no man look upon him.” So saying, 
he opened the visor of Orleans, and threw water 


250 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

on his face, which was afforded by the neighbouring 
lake. 

Quentin Durward, meanwhile, stood like one 
planet-struck ; so fast did new adventures pour 
in upon him. He had now, as the pale features 
of his first antagonist assured him, borne to the 
earth the first Prince of the blood in France, and 
had measured swords with her best champion, the 
celebrated Dunois ; — both of them achievements 
honourable in themselves ; but whether they might 
be called good service to the King, or so .esteemed 
by him, was a very different question. 

The Duke had now recovered his breath, and 
was able to sit up and give attention to what 
passed betwixt Dunois and Crawford, while the 
former pleaded eagerly, that there was no occasion 
to mention in the matter the name of the most 
noble Orleans, while he was ready to take the 
whole blame on his own shoulders ; and to avouch 
that the Duke had only come thither in friendship 
to him. 

Lord Crawford continued listening, with his eyes 
fixed on the ground, and from time to time he 
sighed and shook his head. At length he said, 
looking up, “ Thou knowest, Dunois, that for thy 
father’s sake, as well as thine own, I would full fain 
do thee a service.” 

“ It is not for myself I demand any thing,” an- 
swered Dunois. “ Thou hast my sword, and I am 
your prisoner — what needs more ? — But it is for 
this noble Prince, the only hope of France, if God 
should call the Dauphin. He only came hither to 
do me a favour — in an effort to make my for- 
tune — in a matter which the King had partly 
encouraged.” 


QUENTIN DITRWARD. 


25 1 


“Dunois” replied Crawford, “if another had told 
me thou hadst brought the noble Prince into this 
jeopardy to serve any purpose of thine own, I had 
told him it was false. And now, that thou dost 
pretend so thyself, I can hardly believe it is for the 
sake of speaking the truth.” 

“ Noble Crawford,” said Orleans, who had now 
entirely recovered from his swoon, “you are too 
like in character to your friend Dunois, not to do 
him justice. It was indeed I that dragged him 
hither, most unwillingly, upon an enterprise of 
harebrained passion, suddenly and rashly under- 
taken. — Look on me all who will,” he added, rising 
up and turning to the soldiery — “I am Louis of 
Orleans, willing to pay the penalty of my own folly. 
I trust the King will limit his displeasure to me, as 
is but just. — Meanwhile, as a child of France must 
not give up his sword to any one — not even to you, 
brave Crawford — fare thee well, good steel.” 

So saying, he drew his sword from its scabbard, 
and flung it into the lake. It went through the air 
like a stream of lightning, and sunk in the flashing 
waters, which speedily closed over it. All remained 
standing in irresolution and astonishment, so high 
was the rank, and so much esteemed was the char- 
acter, of the culprit ; while, at the same time, all 
were conscious that the consequences of his rash 
enterprise, considering the views which the King had 
upon him, were likely to end in his utter ruin. 

Dunois was the first who spoke, and it was in the 
chiding tone of an offended, and distrusted friend: — 
“ So ! your Highness hath judged it fit to cast away 
your best sword, in the same morning when it was 
your pleasure to fling away the King’s favour, and 
to slight the friendship of Dunois ? ” 


252 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ My dearest kinsman,” said the Duke, “ when or 
how was it in my purpose to slight your friendship, 
by telling the truth, when it was due to your safety 
and my honour ? ” 

“ What had you to do with my safety, my most 
princely cousin, I would pray to know ? ” answered 
Dunois gruffly ; — “ What, in God’s name, was it to 
you, if T had a mind to be hanged, or strangled, or 
flung into the Loire, or poniarded, or broke on the 
wheel, or hung up alive in an iron cage, or buried 
alive in a castle-fosse, or disposed of in any other 
way in which it might please King Louis to get rid 
of his faithful subject ? — (you need not wink and 
frown, and point to Tristan l’Hermite — I see the 
scoundrel as well as you do.) But it would not 
have stood so hard with me — And so much for my 
safety. And then for your own honour — by the 
blush of Saint Magdalene, I think the honour would 
have been to have missed this morning’s work, or 
kept it out of sight. Here has your highness got 
yourself unhorsed by a wild Scottish boy.” 

“ Tut, tut !” said Lord Crawford; “never shame 
his Highness for that. It is not the first time a 
Scottish boy hath broke a good lance — I am glad 
the youth hath borne 'him well.” 

“ I will say nothing to the contrary,” said Dunois ; 
“ yet, had your Lordship come something later than 
you did, there might have been a vacancy in your 
band of Archers.” 

“ Ay, ay,” answered Lord Crawford ; “ I can read 
your handwriting in that cleft morion. — Some one 
take it from the lad, and give him a bonnet, which, 
with its steel lining, will keep his head better than 
that broken loom. — And let me tell your Lordship, 
that your own armour of proof is not without some 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


253 




marks of good Scottish handwriting. — But, Dunois 
I must now request the Duke of Orleans and you to 
take horse and accompany me, as I have power and 
commission to convey you to a place different from 
that which my good-will might assign you.” 

“ May I not speak one word, my Lord of 
Crawford, to yonder fair ladies?” said the Duke 
of Orleans. 

“ Not one syllable,” answered Lord Crawford ; “ I 
am too much a friend of your Highness to permit 
such an act of folly.” — Then, addressing Quentin, 
he added, “You, young man, have done your duty. 
Go on to obey the charge with which you are 
intrusted.” 

“ Under favour, my Lord,” said Tristan, with his 
usual brutality of manner, “the youth must find 
another guide. I cannot, do without Petit-Andrd, 
when there is so like to be business on hand for 
him.” 

“ The young man,” said Petit- Andrd, now coming 
forward, “has only to keep the path which lies 
straight before him, and it will conduct him to a 
place where he will find the man who is to act as 
his guide. — I would not for a thousand ducats be 
absent from my Chief this clay ! I have hanged 
knights and squires many a one, and wealthy 
Echevins, and burgomasters to boot — even counts 
and marquisses have tasted of my handy work — 

but, a-humph ” He looked at the Duke, as if to 

intimate that he would have filled up the blank, 
with “ a Prince of the blood ! ” — “ Ho, ho, ho ! 
Petit- Andrd, thou wilt be read of in Chronicle ! ” 

“ Do you permit your ruffians to hold such lan- 
guage in such a presence ? ” said Crawford, looking 
sternly to Tristan. 


254 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“ Why do you not correct him yourself, my Lord ? ” 
said Tristan, sullenly. 

“ Because thy hand is the only one in this com- 
pany that can beat him, without being degraded by 
such an action.” 

“ Then rule your own men, my Lord, and I will be 
answerable for mine,” said the Provost-Marshal. 

Lord Crawford seemed about to give a passionate 
reply ; but, as if he had thought better of it, turned 
his back short upon Tristan, and requesting the 
Duke of Orleans and Dunois to ride one on either 
hand of him, he made a signal of adieu to the ladies, 
and said to Quentin, “ God bless thee, my child ; 
thou hast begun thy service valiantly, though in 
an unhappy cause.” He was about to go off — when 
Quentin could hear Dunois whisper to Crawford, 
“ Do you carry us to Ples^is ? ” 

“No, my unhappy and rash friend,” answered 
Crawford, with a sigh ; “ to Loches.” 

“To Loches!” The name of a castle, or rather 
prison, yet more dreaded than Plessis itself, fell 
like a death-toll upon the ear of the young Scotch- 
man. He had heard it described as a place destined 
to the workings of those secret acts of cruelty with 
which even Louis shamed to pollute the interior of 
his own residence. There were in this place of 
terror dungeons under dungeons, some of them 
unknown even to the keepers themselves ; living 
graves, to which men were consigned, with little 
hope of farther employment during the rest of their 
life, than to breathe impure air, and feed on bread 
and water. At this formidable castle were also 
those dreadful places of confinement called cages , 
in which the wretched prisoner could neither stand 
upright, nor stretch himself at length, an invention, 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


255 


it is said, of the Cardinal Balue. 1 ( q ) It is no wonder 
that the name of this place of horrors, and the con- 
sciousness that he had been partly the means of 
dispatching thither two such illustrious victims, 
struck so much sadness into the heart of the young 
Scot, that he rode for some time with his head de- 
jected, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his heart 
filled with the most painful reflections. 

As he was now again at the head of the little 
troop, and pursuing the road which had been pointed 
out to him, the Lady Hameline had an opportunity 
to say to him, — 

“ Methinks, fair sir, you regret the victory which 
your gallantry has attained in our behalf ? ” 

There was something in the question which 
sounded like irony, hut Quentin had tact enough to 
answer simply and with sincerity, 

“ I can regret nothing that is done in the ser- 
vice of such ladies as you are ; but, methinks, had 
it consisted with your safety, I had rather have 
fallen by the sword of so good a soldier, as Dunois, 
than have been the means of consigning that re- 
nowned knight and his unhappy chief, the Duke of 
Orleans, to yonder fearful dungeons.” 

“ It was , then, the Duke of Orleans,” said the 
elder lady, turning to her niece. “ I thought so, 
even at the distance from which we beheld the fray. 

— You see, kinswoman, what we might have been, 
had this sly and avaricious monarch permitted us 
to be seen at his Court. The first Prince of the 
blood of France, and the valiant Dunois, whose 
name is known as wide as that of his heroic father 

— This young gentleman did his devoir bravely and 

1 Who himself tenanted one of these dens for more than eleven 
years. 


256 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


well ; but methinks ’tis pity that be did not suc- 
cumb with honour, since his ill-advised gallantry 
has stood betwixt us and these princely rescuers.” 

The Countess Isabelle replied in a firm and al- 
most a displeased tone ; with an energy, in short, 
which Quentin had not yet observed her use. 

“ Madam,” she said, “ but that I know you jest, 
I would say your speech is ungrateful to our brave 
defender, to whom we owe more, perhaps, than 
you are aware of. Had these gentlemen succeeded 
so far in their rash enterprise as to have defeated 
our escort, is it not still evident, that, on the arrival 
of the Royal Guard, we must have shared their 
captivity? For my own part, I give tears, and will 
soon bestow masses, on the brave man who has 
fallen, and I trust,” (she continued, more timidly,) 
“ that he who lives will accept my grateful thanks.” 

As Quentin turned his face towards her, to re- 
turn the fitting acknowledgments, she saw the blood 
which streamed down on one side of his face, and 
exclaimed, in a tone of deep feeling, “ Holy Virgin, 
he is wounded ! he bleeds ! — Dismount, sir, and let 
your wound be bound up.” 

In spite of all that Durward could say of the 
slightness of his hurt, he was compelled to dismount, 
and to seat himself on a bank, and unhelmet him- 
self, while the ladies of Croye, who, according to 
a fashion not as yet antiquated, pretended to some 
knowledge of leech-craft, washed the wound, 
stanched the blood, and bound it with the kerchief 
of the younger Countess, in order to exclude the air, 
for so their practice prescribed. 

In modern times, gallants seldom or never take 
wounds for ladies’ sake, and damsels on their side 
never meddle with the cure of wounds. Each has 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


2 57 


a danger the less. That which the men escape 
will be generally acknowledged ; but the peril of 
dressing such a slight wound as that of Quentin’s, 
which involved nothing formidable or dangerous, 
was perhaps as real in its way as the risk of en- 
countering it. 

We have already said the patient was eminently 
handsome ; and the removal of his helmet, or, 
more properly, of his morion, had suffered his fair 
locks to escape in profusion, around a countenance 
in which the hilarity of youth was qualified by a 
blush of modesty at once and pleasure. And then 
the feelings of the younger Countess, when com- 
pelled to hold the kerchief to the wound, while her 
aunt sought in their baggage for some vulnerary 
remedy, were mingled at once with a sense of 
delicacy and embarrassment ; a thrill of pity for the 
patient, and of gratitude for his services, which 
exaggerated, in her eyes, his good mien and hand- 
some features. In short, this incident seemed 
intended by Fate to complete the mysterious com- 
munication which she had, by many petty and 
apparently accidental circumstances, established 
betwixt two persons, who, though far different in 
rank and fortune, strongly resembled each other in 
youth, beauty, and the romantic tenderness of an 
affectionate disposition. It was no wonder, there- 
fore, that from this moment the thoughts of the 
Countess Isabelle, already so familiar to his ima- 
gination, should become paramount in Quentin’s 
bosom, nor that if the maiden’s feelings were of a 
less decided character, at least so far as known to 
herself, she should think of her young defender, to 
whom she had just rendered a service so interest- 
ing, with more emotion than of any of the whole 


258 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


band of high-born nobles who had for two years 
past besieged her with their adoration. Above all. 
when the thought of Campo-Basso, the unworth}' 
favourite of Duke Charles, with his hypocritical 
mien, his base, treacherous spirit, his wry neck, 
and his squint, occurred to her, his portrait was 
more disgustingly hideous than ever, and deeply 
did she resolve no tyranny should make her enter 
into so hateful a union. 

In the meantime, whether the good Lady Ha- 
meline of Croye understood and admired mascu- 
line beauty as much as when she was fifteen years 
younger, (for the good Countess was at least thirty- 
five, if the records of that noble house speak the 
truth,) or whether she thought she had done their 
young protector less justice than she ought, in the 
first view which she had taken of his services, it is 
certain that he began to find favour in her eyes. 

“My niece,” she said, “has bestowed on you a 
kerchief for the binding of your wound ; I will give 
you one to grace your gallantry, and to encourage 
you in your farther progress in chivalry.” 

So saying, she gave him a richly embroidered 
kerchief of blue and silver, and pointing to the 
housing of her palfrey, and the plumes in her riding- 
cap, desired him to observe that the colours were 
the same. 

The fashion of the time prescribed one absolute 
mode of receiving such a favour, which Quentin 
followed accordingly, by tying the napkin round 
his arm ; yet his manner of acknowledgment had 
more of awkwardness, and less of gallantry in it, 
than perhaps it might have had at another time, and 
in another presence ; for though the wearing of a 
lady’s favour, given in such a manner, was merely 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


259 


matter of general compliment, he would much rather 
have preferred the right of displaying on his arm 
that which bound the wound inflicted by the sword 
of Dunois. 

Meantime they continued their pilgrimage, Quen- 
tin now riding abreast of the ladies, into whose 
society he seemed to be tacitly adopted. He did 
not speak much, however, being filled by the silent 
consciousness of happiness, which is afraid of giving 
too strong vent to its feelings. The Countess Isa- 
belle spoke still less, so that the conversation was 
chiefly carried on by the Lady Hameline, who 
showed no inclination to let it drop ; for, to initiate 
the young Archer, as she said, into the principles 
and practice of chivalry, she detailed to him, at full 
length, the Passage of Arms at Haflinghem, where 
she had distributed the prizes among the victors. 

Not much interested, I am sorry to say, in the 
description of this splendid scene, or in the her- 
aldic bearings of the different Flemish and German 
knights, which the lady blazoned with pitiless accu- 
racy, Quentin began to entertain some alarm lest 
he should have passed the place where his guide 
was to join him — a most serious disaster, and from 
which, should it really have taken place, the very 
worst consequences were to be apprehended. 

While he hesitated whether it would be better 
to send back one of his followers, to see whether 
this might not be the case, he heard the blast of a 
horn, and looking in the direction from which the 
sound came, beheld a horseman riding very fast 
towards them. The low size, and wild, shaggy, 
untrained state of the animal, reminded Quentin of 
the mountain breed of horses in his own country ; 
but this was much more finely limbed, and, with the 


26 o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


same appearance of hardiness, was more rapid . in its 
movements. The head particularly, which, in the 
Scottish pony, is often lumpish and heavy, was 
small and well placed in the neck of this animal, 
with thin jaws, full sparkling eyes, and expanded 
nostrils. 

The rider was even more singular in his appear- 
ance than the horse which he rode, though that was 
extremely unlike the horses of France. Although 
he managed his palfrey with great dexterity, he sat 
with his feet in broad stirrups, something resem- 
bling shovels, so short in the leathers, that his knees 
were wellnigh as high as the pommel of his saddle. 
His dress was a red turban of small size, in which 
he wore a sullied plume, secured by a clasp of sil- 
ver; his tunic, which was shaped like those of the 
Estradiots, (a sort of troops whom the Venetians 
at that time levied in the provinces, on the eastern 
side of their gulf,) was green in colour, and taw- 
drily laced with gold ; he wore very wide drawers 
or trowsers of white, though none of the cleanest, 
which gathered beneath the knee, and his swarthy 
legs were quite bare, unless for the complicated 
laces which bound a pair of sandals on his feet ; he 
had no spurs, the edge of his large stirrups being so 
sharp as to serve to goad the horse in a very severe 
manner. In a crimson sash this singular horseman 
wore a dagger on the right side, and on the left a 
short crooked Moorish sword; and by a tarnished 
baldric over the shoulder hung the horn which 
announced his approach. He had a swarthy and 
sunburnt visage, with a thin beard, and piercing 
dark eyes, a well-formed mouth and nose, and other 
features which might have been pronounced hand- 
some, but for the black elf-locks which hung around 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


261 


his face, and the air of wildness and emaciation, 
which rather seemed to indicate a savage than a 
civilized man. 

“ He also is a Bohemian ! ” said the ladies to 
each other ; “ Holy Mary, will the King again 
place confidence in these outcasts ? ” 

“ I will question the man, if it be your pleasure,” 
said Quentin, “ and assure myself of his fidelity as 
I best may.” 

Durward, as well as the ladies of Croye, had 
recognised in this man’s dress and appearance, the 
habit and the manners of those vagrants with whom 
he had nearly been confounded by the hasty pro- 
ceedings of Trois-Eschelles and Petit-Andrd, and 
he, too, entertained very natural apprehensions con- 
4 cerning the risk of reposing trust in one of that 
vagrant race. 

“ Art thou come hither to seek us ? ” was his 
first question. 

The stranger nodded. 

“ And for what purpose ? ” 

“ To guide you to the palace of him of Liege.” 

“ Of the Bishop ? ” 

The Bohemian again nodded. 

“ What token canst thou give me, that we should 
yield credence to thee ? ” 

“Even the old rhyme, and no other,” answered 
the Bohemian, — 

“ The page slew the boar, 

The peer had the gloire.” 

“ A true token,” said Quentin ; “ Lead on, good 
fellow — I will speak further with thee presently.” 
Then falling back to the ladies, he said, “ I am con- 


262 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


vinced this man is the guide we are to expect, for 
he hath brought me a pass-word, known, I think, 
but to the King and me. But I will discourse with 
him further, and endeavour to ascertain how far he 
is to be trusted,” 


CHAPTER XYT. 


THE VAGRANT. 

I am as free as Nature first made man, 

Ere the base laws of servitude began, 

When wild in woods the noble savage ran. 

The Conquest of Granada. 

While Quentin held the brief communication 
with the ladies, necessary to assure them that this 
extraordinary addition to their party was the guide 
whom they were to expect on the King’s part, he 
noticed, (for he was as alert in observing the mo- 
tions of the stranger, as the Bohemian could be on 
his part,) that the man not only turned his head as 
far back as he could, to peer at them, but that, with 
a singular sort of agility, more resembling that of 
a monkey than of a man, he had screwed his whole 
person around on the saddle, so as to sit almost 
sidelong upon the horse, for the convenience, as it 
seemed, of watching them more attentively. 

Not greatly pleased with this manoeuvre, Quen- 
tin rode up to the Bohemian, and said to him, as 
he suddenly assumed his proper position on the 
horse, “ Methinks, friend, you* will prove but a 
blind guide, if you look at the tail of your horse 
rather than his ears.” 

“And if I were actually blind,” answered the 
Bohemian, “ I could not the less guide you through 
any country in this realm of France, or in those ad- 
joining to it.” 


264 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“Yet you are no Frenchman born,” said the 
Scot. 

“ I am not,” answered the guide. 

“ What countryman, then, are you ? ” demanded 
Quentin. 

“ I am of no country,” answered the guide. 

“ How ! of no country ? ” repeated the Scot. 

“ No,” answered the Bohemian, “ of none. I 
am a Zingaro, a Bohemian, an Egyptian, or what- 
ever the Europeans, in their different languages, 
may choose to call our people ; but I have no 
country.” 

“ Are you a Christian ? ” asked the Scotchman. 

The Bohemian shook his head. 

“ Dog ! ” said Quentin, (for there was little tole- 
ration in the spirit of Catholicism in those days,) 
“ dost thou worship Mahoun ? ” 

“ No,” was the indifferent and concise answer of 
the guide, who neither seemed offended or surprised 
at the young man’s violence of manner. 

“ Are you a Pagan then, or what are you ? ” 

“ I have no religion,” 1 answered the Bohemian. 

Durward started back ; for though he had heard 
of Saracens and Idolaters, it had never entered into 
his ideas or belief, that any body of men could exist 
who practised no mode of worship whatever. He 
recovered from hi& astonishment, to ask his guide 
where he usually dwelt. 

“ Wherever I chance to be for the time,” replied 
the Bohemian. “ I have no home.” 

“ How do you guard your property ? ” 

“ Excepting the clothes which I wear, and the 
horse I ride on, I have no property.” 


1 Note III. — Religion of the Bohemians. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


265 

"Yet you dress gaily, and ride gallantly/’ said 
Durward. “ What are your means of subsistence ? ’’ 

“ I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am 
thirsty, and have no other means of subsistence than 
chance throws in my way,” replied the vagabond. 

“ Under whose laws do you live ? ” 

“ I acknowledge obedience to none, but as it suits 
my pleasure or my necessities,” said the Bohemian. 

“ Who is your leader, and commands you ?” 

“ The-^ftther of our tribe — if I choose to obey 
him,” said the guide — “ otherwise I have no 
commander.” 

“ You are then,” said the wondering querist, “ des- 
titute of all that other men are combined by — you 
have no law, no leader, no settled means of subsis- 
tence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven 
compassionate you, no country — and, may Heaven 
enlighten and forgive you, you have no God ! What 
is it that remains to you, deprived of government, 
domestic happiness, and religion ?” 

“ I have liberty,” said the Bohemian — “I crouch 
to no one — obey no one — respect no one. — I go 
where I will — live as I can — and die when my day 
comes.” 

“ But you are subject to instant execution, at the 
pleasure of the Judge 'l ” 

“ Be it so,” returned the Bohemian ; “ I can but 
die so much the sooner.” 

*- And to imprisonment also,” said the Scot; 
« and where then is your boasted freedom ? ” 

“ In my thoughts,” said the Bohemian, “ which 
no chains can bind ; while yours, even when your 
limbs are free, remain fettered by your laws and 
your superstitions, your dreams of local attachment, 
and your fantastic visions of civil policy. Such as 


266 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


I are free in spirit when our limbs are chained — 
You are imprisoned in mind, even when your limbs 
are most at freedom.” 

“ Yet the freedom of your thoughts,” said the 
Scot, “relieves not the pressure of the gyves on 
your limbs.” 

“ For a brief time that may be endured,” am 
swered the vagrant ; “ and if within that period I 
cannot extricate myself, and fail of relief from niy 
comrades, I can always die, and death is fhe most 
perfect freedom of all.” 

There was a deep pause of some duration, which 
Quentin at length broke by resuming his queries. 

“Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the 
nations of Europe — Whence do they derive their 
origin ? ” 

“ I may not tell you,” answered the Bohemian. 

“ When will they relieve this kingdom from their 
presence, and return to the land from whence they 
came ? ” said the Scot. 

“ When the day of their pilgrimage shall be ac- 
complished,” replied his vagrant guide. 

“ Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel, 
which were carried into captivity beyond the great 
river Euphrates ? ” said Quentin, who had not for- 
gotten the lore which had been taught him at 
Aberbrothick. 

“ Had we been so,” answered the Bohemian, “ we 
had followed their faith, and practised their rites.” 

“ What is thine own name \ ” said Durward. 

“ My proper name is only known to my brethren 
— The men beyond our tents call me Ilayraddin 
Maugrabin, that is, Hayraddin the African Moor.” 

“ Thou speakest too well for one who hath lived 
always in thy lilthy horde,” said the Scot 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


267 


“ 1 have iearned some of the knowledge of this 
land,” said Hayraddin. — “ When I was a little hoy, 
our tribe was chased by the hunters after human 
flesh. An arrow went through my mother’s head, 
and she died., I was entangled in the blanket on 
her shoulders, and was taken by the pursuers. A 
priest begged me from the Provost’s archers, and 
trained me up in Frankish learning for two or 
thredfyears.” 

“ How came you to part with him ? ” demanded 
Durward. 

“ I stole money from him — even the God which 
he worshipped,” answered Hayraddin, with perfect 
composure ; “ he detected me, and beat me — I 
stabbed him with my knife, fled to the woods, and 
was again united to my people.” 

“ Wretch ! ” said Durward, “ did you murder 
your benefactor ? ” 

“ What had he to do to burden me with his bene- 
fits ? — The Zingaro boy was no house-bred cur, 
to dog the heels of his master, and crouch beneath 
his blows, for scraps of food — He was the impri- 
soned wolf-whelp, which at the first opportunity 
broke his chain, rended his master, and returned 
to his wilderness.” 

There was another pause, when the young Scot, 
with a view of still farther investigating the cha- 
racter and purpose of this suspicious guide, asked 
Hayraddin, “Whether it was not true that his 
people, amid their ignorance, pretended to a know- 
ledge of futurity, which was not given to the 
sages, philosophers, and divines, of more polished 
society ? ” 

We pretend to it,” said Hayraddin, “ and it is 
with justice.” 


268 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


“ How can it be, that so high a gift is bestowed 
on so abject a race ? ” said Quentin. 

“ Can I tell you ? ” answered Hayraddin — “ Yes, 
I may indeed ; but it is when you shall explain to 
me why the dog can trace the footsteps of a jnan. 
while man, the nobler animal, hath not power 
to trace those of the dog. These powers, which 
seem to you so wonderful, are instinctive in our 
race. From the lines on the face and on the hand, 
we can tell the future fate of those who consult us, 
even as surely as you know from the blossom of 
the tree in spring, what fruit it will bear in the 
harvest.” 

“ I doubt of your knowledge, and defy you to the 
proof.” 

“ Defy me not, Sir Squire,” said Hayraddin 
Maugrabin — “I can tell* you, that, say what you 
will of your religion, the Goddess whom you wor- 
ship rides in this company.” 

“ Peace ! ” said Quentin, in astonishment ; “ on 
thy life, not a word farther, but in answer to what 
I ask thee. — Canst thou be faithful ? ” 

“ I can — all men can,” said the Bohemian. 

“ But wilt thou be faithful ? ” 

“ Wouldst thou believe me the more should I 
swear it ? ” answered Maugrabin, with a sneer. 

“ Thy life is in my hand,” said the young Scot. 

“ Strike, and see whether I fear to die,” answered 
the Bohemian. 

“ Will money render thee a trusty guide ? ” de- 
manded Durward. 

“If I be not such without it, Ho,” replied the 
. heathen. 

“ Then what will bind thee ? ” asked the Scot. 

“Kindness,” replied the Bohemian. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 269 

u Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art 
true guide to us on this pilgrimage ?” 

“ No,” replied Hayraddin, “ it were extravagant 
waste of a commodity so rare. To thee I am bound 
already.” 

“ How ! ” exclaimed Durward, more surprised 
than ever. 

“ Remember the chestnut-trees on the banks of 
the Cher ! The victim, whose body thou didst cut 
down, was my brother, Zamet, the Maugrabin ” 

“ And yet,” said Quentin, “ I find you in cor- 
respondence with those very officers by whom your 
brother was done to death ; for it was one of them 
who directed me where to meet with you — the 
same, doubtless, who procured yonder ladies your 
services as a guide.” 

“ What can we do ? ” answered Hayraddin, 
gloomily — “ These men deal with us as the sheep- 
dogs do with the flock ; they protect us for & while, 
drive us hither and thither at their pleasure, and 
always end by guiding us to the shambles.” 

Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the 
Bohemian spoke truth in this particular, and that 
the Provost-guard, employed to suppress the vaga- 
bond bands by which the kingdom was infested, 
entertained correspondence among them, and for- 
bore, for a certain time, the exercise of their duty, 
which always at last ended in conducting their allies 
to the gallows. This is a sort of political relation 
between thief and officer, for the profitable exercise 
of their mutual professions, which has subsisted in 
all countries, and is by no means unknown to our 
own. 

Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to 
the rest of the retinue, very little satisfied with the 


270 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


character of Hayraddin, and entertaining little con 
fidence in the professions of gratitude which he 
had personally made to him. He proceeded to 
sound the other two men who had been assigned 
him for attendants, and he was concerned to find 
them stupid, and as unfit to assist him with coun- 
sel, as in the rencounter they had shown themselves 
reluctant to use their weapons. 

“ It is all the better,” said Quentin to himself, 
his spirit rising with the apprehended difficulties 
of his situation ; “ that lovely young lady shall owe 
all to me. — What one hand — ay, and one head 
can do, — methinks I can boldly count upon. I 
have seen my father’s house on fire, and he and 
my brothers lying dead amongst the flames — I 
gave not an inch back, but fought it out to the last. 
Now I am two years older, and have the best and 
fairest cause to bear me well, that ever kindled 
mettle within a brave man’s bosom.” 

Acting upon this resolution, the attention and 
activity which Quentin bestowed during the jour- 
ney, had in it something that gave him the appear- 
ance of ubiquity. His principal and most favourite 
post was of course by the side of the ladies ; who, 
sensible of his extreme attention to their safety, 
began to converse with him in almost the tone 
of familiar friendship, and appeared -to take great 
pleasure in the naivety yet shrewdness, of his con- 
versation. But Quentin did not suffer the fascina- 
tion of this intercourse to interfere with the vigilant 
discharge of his duty. 

If he was often by the side of the Countesses, 
labouring to describe to the natives of a level coun- 
try the Grampian mountains, and, above all, the 
beauties of Glen-houlakin, — he was as often riding 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


271 


with Hayraddin, in the front of the cavalcade, 
questioning him about the road, and the resting- 
places, and recording his answers in his mind, to 
ascertain whether upon cross-examination he could 
discover any thing like meditated treachery. As 
often again he was in the rear, endeavouring to 
secure the attachment of the two horsemen, by kind 
words, gifts, and promises of additional recompense, 
when their task should be accomplished. 

In this way they travelled for more than a week, 
through by-paths and unfrequented districts, and 
by circuitous routes, in order to avoid large towns. 
Nothing remarkable occurred, though they now 
and then met strolling gangs of Bohemians, who 
respected them, as under the conduct of one of 
their tribe, — straggling soldiers, or perhaps ban- 
ditti, who deemed their party too strong to be at- 
tacked, — or parties of the Marechauss^e, as they 
would now be termed, whom Louis, who searched 
the wounds of the land with steel and cautery, em- 
ployed to suppress the disorderly bands which in- 
fested the interior. These last suffered them to 
pursue their way unmolested, by virtue of a pass- 
word, with which Quentin had been furnished for 
that purpose by the King himself. 

Their resting-places were chiefly the monasteries, 
most of which were obliged by the rules of their 
foundation to receive pilgrims, under which charac- 
ter the ladies travelled, with hospitality, and with- 
out any troublesome enquiries into their rank and 
character, which most persons of distinction were 
desirous of concealing while in the discharge of 
their vows. The pretence of weariness was usually 
employed by the Countesses of Croye, as an excuse 
for instantly retiring to rest, and Quentin, as their 


272 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Major Domo, arranged all that was necessary be- 
twixt them and their entertainers, with a shrewd- 
ness which saved them all trouble, and an alacrity 
that failed not to excite a corresponding degree of 
good-will on the part of those who were thus 
sedulously attended to. 

One circumstance gave Quentin peculiar trouble, 
which was the character and nation of his guide ; 
who, as a heathen, and an infidel vagabond, addicted 
besides to occult arts, (the badge of all his tribe,) 
was often looked upon as a very improper guest 
for the holy resting-places at which the company 
usually halted, and was not in consequence admitted 
within even the outer circuit of their walls, save 
with extreme reluctance. This was very embar- 
rassing ; for, on the one hand, it was necessary to 
keep in good humour a man who was possessed of 
the secret of their expedition , and on the other, 
Quentin deemed it indispensable to maintain a 
vigilant though secret watch on Havraddin’s con- 
duct, in order that, as far as might be, he should 
hold no communication with any one without being 
observed. This of course was impossible, if the 
Bohemian was lodged without the precincts of the 
convent at which they stopped, and Durward could 
not help thinking that Hayraddin was desirous of 
bringing about this latter arrangement ; for, instead 
of keeping himself still and quiet in the quarters 
allotted to him, his conversation, tricks, and songs, 
were at the same time so entertaining to the novices 
and younger brethren, and so unedifying in the opi- 
nion of the seniors of the fraternity, that, in more 
cases than one, it required all the authority, sup- 
ported by threats, which Quentin could exert over 
him, to restrain his irreverent and untimeous jocu- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


273 


laxity, and all the interest he could make with the 
Superiors, to prevent the heathen hound from be- 
ing thrust out of doors. He succeeded, however, 
by the adroit manner in which he apologized for 
the acts of indecorum committed by their attendant, 
and the skill with which he hinted the hope of .his 
being brought to a better sense of principles and 
behaviour, by the neighbourhood of holy relics, 
consecrated buildings, and, above all, of men dedi- 
cated to religion. 

But upon the tenth or twelfth day of their jour- 
ney, after they had entered Flanders, and were 
approaching the town of Namur, all the efforts of 
Quentin became inadequate to suppress the conse- 
quences of the scandal given by his heathen guide. 
The scene was a Franciscan convent, and of a strict 
and reformed order, and the Prior a man who after- 
wards died in the odour of sanctity. After rather 
more than the usual scruples (which were indeed 
in such a case to be expected) had been surmounted, 
the obnoxious Bohemian at length obtained quar- 
ters in an out-house inhabited by a lay-brother, 
who acted as gardener. The ladies retired to their 
apartment, as usual, and the Prior, who chanced to 
have some distant alliances and friends in Scotland, 
and who was fond of hearing foreigners tell of their 
native countries, invited Quentin, with whose mien 
and conduct he seemed much pleased, to a slight 
monastic refection in his own cell. Finding the 
Father a man of intelligence, Quentin did not neg- 
lect the opportunity of making himself acquainted 
with the state of affairs in the country of Liege, of 
which, during the last two days of their journey, 
he had heard such reports, as made hiin very ap- 
prehensive for the security of his charge during the 


274 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


remainder of their route, nay, even of the Bishops 
power to protect them, when they should be safely 
conducted to his residence. The replies of the 
Prior were not very consolatory. 

He said, that “ the people of Liege were wealthy 
burghers, who, like Jeshurun of old, had waxed 
fat and kicked — that they were uplifted in heart 
because of their wealth and their privileges — that 
they had divers disputes with the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, their liege lord, upon the subject of imposts 
and immunities — and that they had repeatedly 
broken out into open mutiny, whereat the Duke was 
so much incensed, as being a man of a hot and fiery 
nature, that he had sworn, by Saint George, on the 
next provocation, he would make the city of Liege 
like to the desolation of Babylon, and the downfall 
of Tyre, a hissing and a reproach to the whole 
territory of Flanders.” 

“ And he is a prince, by all report, likely to keep 
such a vow,” said Quentin ; “ so the men of Liege 
will probably beware how they give hifn occasion.” 

“It were to be so hoped,” said the Prior and such 
are the prayers of the godly in the land, who would 
not that the blood of the citizens were poured 
forth like water, and that they should perish, even 
as utter castaways, ere they make their peace with 
Heaven. Also the good Bishop labours night and 
day to preserve peace, as well become th a servant 
of the altar ; for it is written in holy scripture, 

Beati pacifici. But ” here the good Prior 

stopped, with a deep sigh. 

Quentin modestly urged the great importance of 
which it was to the ladies whom he attended, to 
have some assured information respecting the inter- 
nal state of the country, and what an act of Chris- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


275 


tian charity it would be, if the worthy and reverend 
Rather would enlighten them upon that subject. 

• “It is one,” said the Prior, “on which no man 
speaks with willingness ; for those who speak evil 
of the powerful, etiam in cubiculo , may find that a 
winged thing shall carry the matter to his ears. 
Nevertheless, to render you, who seem an ingenu- 
ous youth, and your ladies, who are devout vota- 
resses accomplishing a holy pilgrimage, the little 
service that is in my power, I will be plain with 
you” 

He then looked cautiously round, and lowered 
his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. 

“ The people of Liege,” he said, “ are privily in- 
stigated to their frequent mutinies by men of Belial, 
who pretend, but, as I hope, falsely, to have com- 
mission to that effect from our most Christian King ; 
whom, however, I hold to deserve that term better 
than were consistent with his thus disturbing the 
peace of a neighbouring state. Yet so it is, that his 
name is freely used by those who uphold and in- 
flame the discontents at Liege. There is, moreover, 
in the land, a nobleman of good descent, and fame in 
warlike affairs ; but otherwise, so to speak, Lapis 
offensionis et petra scandali, — a stumbling-block of 
offence to the countries of Burgundy and Flanders. 
His name is William de la Marck.” 

“ Called William with the Beard,” said the young 
Scot, “ or the Wild Boar of Ardennes ? ” 

“And rightly so called, my son,” said the Prior; 
“ because he is as the wild boar of the forest, which 
treadeth down with his hoofs, and rendeth with his 
tusks. And he hath formed to himself, a band of 
more than a thousand men, all, like himself, con- 
temners of civil and ecclesiastical authority, and 


276 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


holds himself independent of the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, and maintains himself and his followers by 
rapine and wrong, wrought without distinction, upon 
churchmen and laymen. Imposuit manus in Christos 
Domini , — he hath stretched forth his hand upon the 
anointed of the Lord, regardless of what is written, 
— ‘ Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets 
no wrong.’ — Even to our poor house did he send 
for sums of gold and sums of silver, as a ransom for 
our lives, and those of our brethren ; to which we 
returned a Latin supplication, stating our inability to 
answer his demand, and exhorting him in the words 
of the preacher, Ne moliaris amico tuo malum , cum 
hdbet in te fiduciam. Nevertheless, this Gulielmus 
Barbatus, this William de la Marck, as completely 
ignorant of humane letters as of humanity itself, 
replied, in his ridiculous jargon, ‘Si non payatis, 
brulaho monasterium vestrum * ” 1 

“ Of which rude Latin, however, you, my good 
father,” said the youth, “ were at no loss to conceive 
the meaning ? ” 

“ Alas, my son,” said the Prior, “ Fear and Neces- 
sity are shrewd interpreters ; and we were obliged 
to melt down the silver vessels of our altar to sat- 
isfy the rapacity of this cruel chief — May Heaven 
requite it to him seven-fold ! Per eat improbus — 
Amen , amen, anathema esto ! ” 

“ I marvel,” said Quentin, “ that the Duke of 
Burgundy, who is so strong and powerful, doth not 
bait this boar to purpose, of whose ravages I have 
already heard so much.” 

“ Alas ! my son,” said the Prior, “ the Duke Charles 

1 A similar story is told of the Duke of Vendome, who answered 
in this sort of macaronic Latin the classical expostulations of a 
German convent against the imposition of a contribution. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


2 77 


is now at Peronne, assembling his captains of hun- 
dreds and his captains of thousands, to make war 
against France ; and thus, while Heaven hath set 
discord between the hearts of those great princes, 
the country is misused by such subordinate op- 
pressors. But it is in evil time that the Duke 
neglects the cure of these internal gangrenes; for 
this William de la Marck hath of late entertained 
open communication with Rouslaer and Pavilion, 
the chiefs of the discontented at Liege, and it is 
to be feared he will soon stir them up to some 
desperate enterprise.” 

“ But the Bishop of Liege,” said Quentin, “ he hath 
still power enough to subdue this disquieted and tur- 
bulent spirit — hath he not, good father ? — Your 
answer to this question concerns me much.” 

“ The Bishop, my child,” replied the Prior, “ hath 
the sword of Saint Peter, as well as the keys. He 
hath power as a secular prince, and he hath the 
protection of the mighty House of Burgundy; he 
hath also spiritual authority as a prelate, and he 
supports both with a reasonable force of good soldiers 
and men-at-arms. This William de la Marck was 
bred in his household, and bound to him by many 
benefits. But he gave vent, even in the court of the 
Bishop, to his fierce and bloodthirsty temper, and 
was expelled thence for a homicide, committed on 
one of the Bishop’s chief domestics. From thence- 
forward, being banished from the good Prelate’s 
presence, he hath been his constant and unrelent- 
ing foe ; and now, I grieve to say, he hath girded 
his loins, and strengthened his horn against him.” 

" You consider, then, the situation of the worthy 
Prelate as being dangerous ? ” said Quentin, very 
anxiously. 


278 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ Alas ! my son/' said the good Franciscan, “ what 
or who is there in this weary wilderness, whom we 
may not hold as in danger ? But Heaven forefend, 
I should speak of the reverend Prelate as one whose 
peril is imminent. He has much treasure, true coun- 
sellors, and brave soldiers ; and, moreover, a messen- 
ger who passed hither to the eastward yesterday, 
saith that the Duke of Burgundy hath dispatched, 
upon the Bishop’s request, an hundred men-at-arms 
to his assistance. This reinforcement, with the reti 
nue belonging to each lance, are enough to deal 
with William de la Marck, on whose name be 
sorrow ! — Amen.” 

At this crisis their conversation was interrupted 
by the Sacristan, who, in a voice almost inarticu- 
late with anger, accused the Bohemian of having 
practised the most abominable arts of delusion 
among the younger brethren. He had added to 
their nightly meal cups of a heady and intoxicating 
cordial, of ten times the strength of the most power- 
ful wine, under which several of the fraternity had 
succumbed, — and indeed, although the Sacristan 
had been strong to resist its influence, they might 
yet see, from his inflamed countenance and thick 
speech, that even he, the accuser himself, was in 
some degree affected by this unhallowed potation. 
Moreover, the Bohemian had sung songs of worldly 
vanity and impure pleasures ; he had derided the 
cord of Saint Francis, made jest of his miracles, and 
termed his votaries fools and lazy knaves. Lastly, 
he had practised palmistry, and foretold to the 
young Father Cherubin, that he was beloved by a 
beautiful lady, who should make him father to a 
thriving boy. 

The Father Prior listened to these complaints for 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


279 


some time in silence, as struck with mute horror 
by their enormous atrocity. When the Sacristan 
had concluded, he rose up, descended to the court of 
the convent, and ordered the lay brethren, on pain 
of the worst consequences of spiritual disobedience, 
to beat Hayraddin out of the sacred precincts, with 
their broom-staves and cart-whips. 

This sentence was executed accordingly, in the 
presence of Quentin Durward, who, however vexed 
at the occurrence, easily saw that his interference 
would be of no avail. 

The discipline inflicted upon the delinquent, not- 
withstanding the exhortations of the Superior, was 
more ludicrous than formidable. The Bohemian 
ran hither and thither through the court, amongst 
the clamour of voices, and noise of blows, some of 
which reached him not, because purposely mis- 
aimed ; others, sincerely designed for his person, 
were eluded by his activity; and the few that fell 
upon his back and shoulders, he took without either 
complaint or reply. The noise and riot was the 
greater, that the inexperienced cudgel-players, 
among whom Hayraddin ran the gauntlet, hit each 
other more frequently than they did him ; till at 
length, desirous of ending a scene which was more 
scandalous than edifying, the Prior commanded the 
wicket to be flung open, and the Bohemian, darting 
through it with the speed of lightning, fled forth 
into the moonlight. 

During this scene, a suspicion which Durward 
had formerly entertained, recurred with additional ; 
strength. Hayraddin had, that very morning, pro- 
mised to him more modest and discreet behaviour 
than he was wont to exhibit, when they rested in 
a convent on their journey ; yet he had broken his 


28 o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


engagement, and had been even more offensively 
obstreperous than usual. Something probably lurked 
under this ; for whatever were the Bohemian’s 
deficiencies, he lacked neither sense, nor, when he 
pleased, self-command; and might it not be pro- 
bable that he wished to hold some communication, 
either with his own horde or some one else, from 
which he was debarred in the course of the day, 
by the vigilance with which he was watched by 
Quentin, and had recourse to this stratagem in order 
to get himself turned out of the convent ? 

No sooner did this suspicion dart once more 
through Durward’s mind, than, alert as he always 
was in his motions, he resolved to follow his cud- 
gelled guide, and observe (secretly if possible) how 
he disposed of himself. Accordingly, when the 
Bohemian fled, as already mentioned, out at the 
gate of the convent, Quentin, hastily explaining to 
the Prior the necessity of keeping sight of his guide, 
followed in pursuit of him. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE ESPIED SPY. 


What, the rude ranger ? and spied spy ? — hands off — 

You are for no such rustics. 

Ben Jonson’s Tale of Robin Hood . 

When Quentin sallied from the convent, he could 
mark the precipitate retreat of the Bohemian, whose 
dark figure was seen in the far moonlight, flying 
with the speed of a flogged hound quite through 
the street of the little village, and across the level 
meadow that lay beyond. 

“ My friend runs fast,” said Quentin to himself ; 
“ but he must run faster yet, to escape the fleetest 
foot that ever pressed the heather of Glen-houlakin.” 

Being fortunately without his cloak and armour, 
the Scottish mountaineer was at liberty to put forth 
a speed which was unrivalled in his own glens, and 
which, notwithstanding the rate at which the 
Bohemian ran, was likely soon to bring his pursuer 
up with him. This was not, however, Quentin’s 
object ; for he considered it more essential to watch 
Hayraddin’s motions, than to interrupt them. He 
was the rather led to this, by the steadiness with 
which the Bohemian directed his course ; and which 
continuing, even after the impulse of the violent 
expulsion had subsided, seemed to indicate that his 
career had some more certain goal for its object 


282 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


than could have suggested itself to a person unex- 
pectedly turned out of good quarters when mid- 
night was approaching, to seek a new place of 
repose. He never even looked behind him ; and 
consequently Durward was enabled to follow him 
unobserved. At length the Bohemian having tra- 
versed the meadow, and attained the side of a little 
stream, the banks of which were clothed with alders 
and willows, Quentin observed that he stood still, 
and blew a low note on his horn, which was 
answered by a whistle at some little distance. 

“ This is a rendezvous,” thought Quentin ; “ but 
how shall I come near enough to overhear the im- 
port of what passes ? the sound of my steps, and 
the rustling of the boughs through which I must 
force my passage, will betray me, unless I am cau- 
tious — I will stalk them, by Saint Andrew, as if 
they were Glen-isla deer — they shall learn that I 
have not conned woodcraft for nought. Yonder 
they meet, the two shadows — and two of them there 
are — odds against me if I am discovered, and if 
their purpose be unfriendly, as is much to be 
doubted. And then the Countess Isabelle loses 
her poor friend ! — Well — and he were not worthy 
to be called such, if he were not ready to meet a 
dozen in her behalf. — Have I not crossed swords 
with Dunois, the best knight in France, and shall I 
fear a tribe of yonder vagabonds ? — Pshaw — God 
and Saint Andrew to friend, they will find me both 
stout and wary.” 

Thus resolving, and with a degree of caution 
taught him by his silvan habits, our friend de- 
scended into the channel of the little stream, which 
varied in depth, sometimes scarce covering his shoes, 
sometimes coming up to his knees, and so crept 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


283 


along, his form concealed by the boughs overhang- 
ing the bank, and his steps unheard amid the ripple 
of the water. (We have ourselves, in the days of 
yore, thus approached the nest of the wakeful raven.) 
In this manner, the Scot drew near unperceived, 
until he distinctly heard the voices of those who 
were the subject of his observation, though he could 
not distinguish the words. Being at this time under 
the drooping branches of a magnificent weeping 
willow, which almost swept the surface of the 
water, he caught hold of one of its boughs, by the 
assistance of which, exerting at once much agility, 
dexterity, and strength, he raised himself up into 
the body of the tree, and sat, secure from discov- 
ery, among the central branches. 

From this situation he could discover that the 
person with whom Hayraddin was now conversing 
was one of his own tribe, and, at the same time, 
he perceived, to his great disappointment, that no 
approximation could enable him to comprehend 
their language, which was totally unknown to him. 
They laughed much ; and as Hayraddin made a 
sign of skipping about, and ended by rubbing his 
shoulder with his hand, Durward had no doubt 
that he was relating the story of the bastinading 
which he had sustained previous to his escape from 
the convent. 

On a sudden, a whistle was again heard in the 
distance, which was once more answered by a low 
tone or two of Hayraddin’s horn. Presently after- 
wards, a tall, stout, soldierly-looking man, a strong 
contrast in point of thews and sinews to the small 
and slender-limbed Bohemians, made his appear- 
ance. He had a broad baldric over his shoulder, 
which sustained a sword that hung almost across 


284 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


his person; his hose were much slashed, through 
which slashes was drawn silk or tiffany, of various 
colours ; they were tied by at least five hundred 
points or strings, made of ribbon, to the tight buff- 
jacket which he wore, and the right sleeve of which 
displayed a silver boar’s head, the crest of his Cap- 
tain. A very small hat sat jauntily on one side of 
his head, from which descended a quantity of curled 
hair, which fell on each side of a broad face, and 
mingled with as broad a beard, about four inches 
long. He held a long lance in his hand ; and his 
whole equipment was that of one of the German 
adventurers, who were known by the name of 
lanzknechts, in English, spearmen, who constituted 
a formidable part of the infantry of the period. 
These mercenaries were, of course, a fierce and 
rapacious soldiery, and having an idle tale current 
among themselves, that a lanzknecht was refused 
admittance into heaven on account of his vices, and 
into hell on the score of his tumultuous, mutinous, 
and insubordinate disposition, they manfully acted 
as if they neither sought the one, nor eschewed the 
other. 

“ Donner and blitz!” was his first salutation, in 
a sort of German-French, which we can only im- 
perfectly imitate, “ Why have you kept me dancing 
in attendance dis dree nights ? ” 

“ I could not see you sooner, Meinherr,” said 
Hayraddin, very submissively ; “ there is a young 
Scot, with as quick an eye as the wild-cat, who 
watches my least motions. He suspects me already, 
and, should he find his suspicion confirmed, I were 
a dead man on the spot, and he would carry back 
the women into France again.” 

‘‘Was henker ! ” said the lanzknecht; “we are 


• QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


285 


three — we will attack them to-morrow, and carry 
the women off without going farther. You said 
the two valets were cowards — you and your com- 
rade may manage them, and the Teufel sail hold 
me, hut I match your Scots wild-cat.” 

“ You will find that foolhardy,” said Hayraddin ; 
“ for, besides that we ourselves count not much in 
fighting, this spark hath matched himself with the 
best knight in France, and come off with honour — 
I have seen those who saw him press Dunois hard 
enough.” 

“ Hagel and sturmwetter ! It is but your cow- 
ardice that speaks,” said the German soldier. 

“ I am no more a coward than yourself,” said 
Hayraddin ; “ but my trade is not fighting. — If you 
keep the appointment where it was laid, it is well 
— if not, I guide them safely to the Bishop’s Palace, 
and William de la Marck may easily possess him- 
self of them there, provided he is half as strong as 
he pretended a week since.” 

“ Poz tausend ! ” said the soldier, “ we are as 
strong and stronger ; but we hear of a hundreds of 
the lances of Burgund, — das ist, — see you, — five 
men to a lance do make five hundreds, and then 
hold me the devil, they will be fainer to seek for 
us, than we to seek for them ; for der Bischoff hath 
a goot force on footing — ay, indeed ! ” 

“You must then hold to the ambuscade at the 
Cross of the Three Kings, or give up the adventure,” 
said the Bohemian. 

“ Geb up — geb up the adventure of the rich bride 
for our noble hauptman — Teufel ! I will charge 
through hell first. — Mein soul, we will be all princes 
and hertzogs, whom they call dukes, and- we will 
hab a snab at the wein-kellar, and at the mouldy 


286 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


French crowns, and it may be at the pretty garces 
too, when He with de beard is weary on them.” 

“ The ambuscade at the Cross of the Three 
Kings then still holds ? ” said the Bohemian. 

“ Mein Got, ay, — you will swear to bring them 
there ; and when they are on their knees before the 
cross, and down from off their horses, which all men 
do, except such black heathens as thou, we will 
make in on them, and they are ours.” 

“ Ay ; but I promised this piece of necessary 
villainy only on one condition,” said Hayraddin. — 
“ I will not have a hair of the young man’s head 
touched. If you swear this to me, by your Three 
dead Men of Cologne, I will swear to you, by the 
Seven Night Walkers, that I will serve you truly 
as to the rest. And if you break your oath, the 
Night Walkers shall wake you seven nights from 
your sleep, between night and morning, and, on 
the eighth, they shall strangle and devour you.” 

“ But, donner and hagel, what need you be so 
curious about the life of this boy, who is neither 
your bloot nor kin ? ” said the German. 

“ No matter for that, honest Heinrick; some men 
have pleasure in cutting throats, some in keeping 
them whole — So swear to me, that you will spare 
him life and limb, or, by the bright star Aldeboran, 
this matter shall go no further — Swear, and by the 
Three Kings, as you call them, of Cologne — I know 
you care for no other oath.” 

“ Du hist ein comisclie man,” said the lanzknecht, 
“ I swear ” 

“Not yet,” said the Bohemian — “Faces about, 
brave lanzknecht, and look to the east, else the 
Kings may not hear you.” 

The soldier took the oath in the manner pre* 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


287 


scribed, and then declared that he would be in 
readiness, observing the place was quite convenient, 
being scarce five miles from their present leaguer. 

“ But, were it not making sure work to have a 
fahnlein of riders on the other road, by the left 
side of the inn, which might trap them if thev 20 
that way ? ” 

The Bohemian considered a moment, and then 
answered, “No — the appearance of their troops in 
that direction might alarm the garrison of Namur, 
and then they would have a doubtful fight, instead 
of assured success. Besides, they shall travel on 
the right bank of the Maes, for I can guide them 
which way I will ; for, sharp as this same Scottish 
mountaineer is, he hath never asked any one’s 
advice, save mine, upqn the direction of their route. 
— Undoubtedly, I was assigned to him by an as- 
sured friend, whose word no man mistrusts till they 
come to know him a little.” 

“ Hark ye, friend Hayraddin,” said the soldier, 
“I would ask you somewhat. — You and your 
bruder were, as you say yourself, gross sternen- 
deuter, that is, star-lookers and geister-seers — Now, 
what henker was it made you net foresee him, your 
bruder Zamet, to be hanged ? ” 

“ I will tell you, Heinrick,” said Hayraddin ; — 
“if I could have known my brother was such a 
fool as to tell the counsel of King Louis to Duke 
Charles of Burgundy, I could have foretold his 
death as sure as I can foretell fair weather in July. 
Louis hath both ears and hands at the Court of 
Burgundy, and Charles’s counsellors love the chink 
of French gold as well as thou dost the clatter of 
a wine-pot. — But fare thee well, and keep appoint- 
ment — I must await my early Scot a bow-shot 


288 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


without the gate of the den of the lazy swine 
yonder, else will he think me about some ex- 
cursion which bodes no good to the success of his 
journey.” 

“ Take a draught of comfort first,” said the lanz- 
knecht, tendering him a flask, — “ but I forget ; 
thou art beast enough to drink nothing but water, 
like a vile vassal of Mahound and Termagund.” 

"Thou art thyself a vassal of the wine-measure 
and the flagon,” said the Bohemian, — "I marvel not 
that thou art only trusted with the bloodthirsty 
and violent part of executing what better heads 
have devised. — He must drink no wine, who would 
know the thoughts of others, or hide his own. But 
why preach to thee, who hast a thirst as eternal as 
a sand-bank in Arabia ? — Fare thee well. — Take 
my comrade Tuisco with thee — his appearance 
about the monastery may breed suspicion.” 

The two worthies parted, after each had again 
pledged himself to keep the rendezvous at the Cross 
of the Three Kings. 

Quentin Durward watched until they were out 
of sight, and then descended from his place of con- 
cealment, his heart throbbing at the narrow escape 
which he and his fair charge had made — if, indeed, 
it could yet be achieved — from a deep-laid plan of 
villainy. Afraid, on his return to the monastery, 
of stumbling upon Hayraddin, he made a Ions de- 
tour, at the expense of traversing some very rough 
ground, and was thus enabled to return to his 
asylum on a different point from that by which he 
left it. 

On the route, he communed earnestly with him- 
self concerning the safest plan to be pursued. He 
had formed the resolution, when he first heard 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 289 

Hayraddin avow his treachery, to put him to death 
so soon as the conference broke up, and his compan- 
ions were at a sufficient distance ; but when he 
heard the Bohemian express so much interest in 
saving his own life, he felt it would be ungrateful 
to execute upon him, in its rigour, the punishment 
his treachery had deserved. He therefore resolved 
to spare his life, and even, if possible, still to use 
his services as a guide, under such precautions as 
should ensure the security of the precious charge, to 
the preservation of which his own life was internally 
devoted. 

But whither were they to turn — the Countesses 
of Croye could neither obtain shelter in Burgundy, 
from which they had fled, nor in France, from which 
they had been in a manner expelled. The violence 
of Duke Charles in the one country, was scarcely 
more to be feared than the cold and tyrannical 
policy of King Louis in the other. After deep 
thought, Durward could form no better or safer plan 
for their security, than that, evading the ambuscade, 
they should take the road to Liege by the left hand 
of the Maes, and throw themselves, as the ladies 
originally designed, upon the protection of the ex- 
cellent Bishop. That Prelate’s will to protect them 
could not be doubted, and, if reinforced by this 
Burgundian party of men-at-arms, he might be con- 
sidered as having the power. At any rate, if the 
dangers to which he was exposed from the hostility 
of William de la Marck, and from the troubles in 
the city of Liege, appeared imminent, he would still 
he able to protect the unfortunate ladies until they 
could be dispatched to Germany with a suitable 
escort. 

To sum up this reasoning — for when is a men 


290 


QUENTIN DURYVARD. 


tal argument conducted without some refeience to 
selfish considerations ? — Quentin imagined that the 
death or captivity to which King Louis had, in cold 
blood, consigned him, set him at liberty from his 
engagements to the Crown of France ; which, there- 
fore, it was his determined purpose to renounce. 
The Bishop of Liege was likely, he concluded, to 
need soldiers, and he thought that, by the interpo- 
sition of his fair friends, who now, especially the 
elder Countess, treated him with much familiarity, 
he might get some command, and perhaps might 
have the charge of conducting the Ladies of Croye 
to some place more safe than the neighbourhood of 
Liege. And, to conclude, the ladies had talked, 
although almost in a sort of jest, of raising the 
Countess’s own vassals, and, as others did in those 
stormy times, fortifying her strong castle against 
all assailants whatever ; they had jestingly asked 
Quentin, whether he would accept the perilous office 
of their Seneschal ; and, on his embracing the office 
with ready glee and devotion, they had, in the same 
spirit, permitted him to kiss both their hands on 
that confidential and honourable appointment. Kay, 
he thought that the hand of the Countess Isabelle, 
one of the best formed and most beautiful to which 
true vassal ever did such homage, trembled when 
his lips rested on it a moment longer than ceremony 
required, and that some confusion appeared on her 
cheek and in her eye as she withdrew it. Some- 
thing might come of all this ; and what brave man, 
at Quentin Durward’s age, but would gladly have 
taken the thoughts which it awakened, into the con- 
siderations which were to determine his conduct ? 

This point settled, he had next to consider in 
what degree he was to use the further guidance of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 2gi 

the faithless Bohemian. He had renounced his first 
thought of killing him in the wood, and if he took 
another guide, and dismissed him alive, it would 
he sending the traitor to the camp of William de 
la Marck, with intelligence of their motions. He 
thought of taking the Prior into his counsels, and 
requesting him to detain the Bohemian by force, 
until they should have time to reach the Bishop’s 
castle ; but, on reflection, he dared not hazard such 
a proposition to one who was timid both as an old 
man and a friar, who held the safety of his con- 
vent the most important object of his duty, and 
who trembled at the mention of the Wild Boar of 
Ardennes. 

At length Durward settled a plan of operation, 
on which he could the better reckon, as the execu- 
tion rested entirely upon himself ; and, in the cause _ 
in which he was engaged, he felt himself capable 
of every thing. With a firm and bold heart, though 
conscious of the dangers of his situation, Quentin 
might be compared to one walking under a load, of 
the weight of which he is conscious, but which yet 
is not beyond his strength and power of endurance. 
Just as his plan was determined, he reached the 
convent. 

Upon knocking gently at the gate, a brother, con- 
siderately stationed for that purpose by the Prior, 
opened it, and acquainted him that the brethren 
were to be engaged in the choir till daybreak, pray- 
ing Heaven to forgive to the community the various 
scandals which had that evening taken place among 
them. 

The worthy friar offered Quentin permission to 
attend their devotions ; but his clothes were in such 
a wet condition, that the young Scot was obliged 


292 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


to decline the opportunity, and request permission, 
instead, to sit by the kitchen fire, in order to his 
attire being dried before morning ; as he was par- 
ticularly desirous that the Bohemian, when they 
should next meet, should observe no traces of his 
having been abroad during the night. The friar 
not only granted his request, but afforded him his 
own company, which fell in very happily with the 
desire which Durward had to obtain information 
concerning the two routes which he had heard men- 
tioned by the Bohemian in his conversation with 
the lanzknecht. The friar, intrusted upon many 
occasions with the business of the convent abroad, 
was the person in the fraternity best qualified to 
afford him the information he requested, but ob- 
served, that, as true pilgrims, it became the duty 
of the ladies whom Quentin escorted, to take the 
road on the right side of the Maes, by the Cross of 
the Kings, where the blessed relics of Caspar, Mel- 
chior, and Balthasar, (as the Catholic Church has 
named the eastern Magi who came to Bethlehem 
with their offerings,) had rested as they were trans- 
ported to Cologne, and on which spot they had 
wrought many miracles. 

Quentin replied, that the ladies were determined 
to observe all the holy stations with the utmost 
punctuality, and would certainly visit that of the 
Cross, either in going to or returning from Cologne, 
but they had heard reports that the road by the 
right side of the river was at present rendered un- 
safe by the soldiers of the ferocious William de la 
Marck. 

“ Now may Heaven forbid,” said Father Francis, 
“that the Wild Boar of Ardennes should again 
make his lair so near us ! — Nevertheless, the 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


293 


broad Maes will be a good barrier betwixt us, even 
should it so chance.” 

“ But it will be no barrier between my ladies 
and the marauder, should we cross the river, and 
travel on the right bank,” answered the Scot. 

“ Heaven will rotect its own, young man,” said 
the friar ; “ for it were hard to think that the Kings 
of yonder blessed city of Cologne, who will not 
endure that a Jew or Infidel should even enter 
within the walls of their town, could be oblivi- 
ous enough to permit their worshippers, coming to 
their shrine as true pilgrims, to be plundered and 
misused by such a miscreant dog as this Boar of 
Ardennes, who is worse than a whole desert of 
Saracen heathens, and all the ten tribes of Israel 
to boot.” 

Whatever reliance Quentin, as a sincere Catholic, 
was bound to rest upon the special protection of 
Melchior, Caspar, and Balthasar, he could not but 
recollect, that the pilgrim habits of the ladies being 
assumed out of mere earthly policy, he and his 
charge could scarcely expect their countenance on 
the present occasion ; and therefore resolved, as 
far as possible, to avoid placing the ladies in any 
predicament where miraculous interposition might 
be necessary ; whilst, in the simplicity of his good 
faith, he himself vowed a pilgrimage to the Three 
Kings of Cologne in his own proper person, pro- 
vided the simulate design of those over whose 
safety he was now watching, should be permitted 
by those reasonable and royal, as well as sainted 
personages, to attain the desired effect. 

That he might enter into this obligation with all 
solemnity, he requested the friar to show him into 
one of the various chapels which opened from the 


294 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


main body of the church of the convent, where, 
upon his knees, and with sincere devotion, he rati- 
fied the vow which he had made internally. The dis- 
tant sound of -the choir, the solemnity of the deep 
and dead hour which he had chosen for this act of 
devotion, the effect of the glimmering lamp with 
which the little Gothic building was illuminated 
— all contributed to throw Quentin’s mind into 
the state when it most readily acknowledges its 
human frailty, and seeks that supernatural aid and 
protection, which, in every worship, must be con- 
nected with repentance for past sins, and resolu- 
tions of future amendment. That the object of his 
devotion was misplaced, was not the fault of 
Quentin ; and, its purpose being sincere, we can 
scarce suppose it unacceptable to the only true 
Deity, who regards the motives, and not the forms 
of prayer, and in whose eyes the sincere devotion 
of a heathen is more estimable than the specious 
hypocrisy of a Pharisee. 

Having commended himself and his helpless 
companions to the Saints, and to the keeping of 
Providence, Quentin at length retired to rest, leav- 
ing the friar much edified by the depth and sin- 
cerity of his devotion. 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


Note I., p. 103. — Gipsies or Bohemians. 

In a former volume of this edition of the Waverley Novels, 
(Guy Mannering,) the reader will find some remarks on the 
gipsies as they are found in Scotland. But it is well known 
that this extraordinary variety of the human race exists in nearly 
the same primitive state, speaking the same language, in almost 
all the kingdoms of Europe, and conforming in certain respects 
to the manners of the people around them, but yet remaining 
separated from them by certain material distinctions, in which 
they correspond with each other, and thus maintain their preten- 
sions to be considered as a distinct race. Their first appearance 
in Europe took place in the beginning of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, when various bands of this singular people appeared in 
the different countries of Europe. They claimed an Egyptian 
descent, and their features attested that they were of Eastern 
origin. The account given by these singular people was, thai 
it was appointed to them, as a penance, to travel for a certain 
number of years. This apology was probably selected as being 
most congenial to the superstitions of the countries which they 
visited. Their appearance, however, and manners, strongly 
contradicted the allegation that they travelled from any 
religious motive. 

Their dress and accoutrements were at once showy and squalid; 
those who acted as captains and leaders of any horde, and such 
always appeared as their commanders, were arrayed in dresses 
of the most showy colours, such as scarlet or light green ; were 
well mounted ; assumed the title of dukes and counts, and 
affected considerable consequence. The rest of the tribe were 
most miserable in their diet and apparel, fed without hesitation 
on animals which had died of disease, and were clad in filthy 
and scanty rags, which hardly sufficed for the ordinary pur- 
poses of common decency. Their complexion was positively 
Eastern, approaching to that of the Hindoos. 

Their manners were as depraved as their appearance was poor 
and beggarly. The men were in general thieves, and the women 


296 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


of the most abandoned character. The few arts which they 
studied with success, were of a slight and idle, though ingenious 
description. They practised working in iron, but never upon 
any great scale. Many were good sportsmen, good musicians, 
and masters, in a word, of all those trivial arts, the practice of 
which is little better than mere idleness. But their ingenuity 
never ascended into industry. Two or three other peculiarities 
seem to have distinguished them in all countries. Their pre- 
tensions to read fortunes, by palmistry and by astrology, 
acquired them sometimes respect, but oftener drew them under 
suspicion as sorcerers ; and lastly, the universal accusation that 
they augmented their horde by stealing children, subjected them 
to doubt and execration. From this it happened, that the pre- 
tension set up by these wanderers, of being pilgrims in the act of 
penance, although it was at first admitted, and in many instances 
obtained them protection from the governments of the coun- 
tries through which they travelled, was afterwards totally 
disbelieved, and they were considered as incorrigible rogues and 
vagrants ; they incurred almost everywhere sentence of banish- 
ment, and, where suffered to remain, were rather objects of 
persecution than of protection from the law. 

There is a curious and accurate account of their arrival in 
France in the Journal of a Doctor of Theology, which is pre- 
served and published by the learned Pasquier. The following 
is an extract : — 

“On August 27th, 1427, came to Paris twelve penitents, Penan - 
tiers, (penance doers,) as they called themselves, viz. a duke, an earl, 
and ten men, all on horseback, and calling themselves good Chris- 
tians. They were of Lower Egypt, and gave out that, not long before, 
the Christians had subdued their country, and obliged them to 
embrace Christianity 011 pain of being put to death. Those who were 
baptized were great lords in their own country, and had a king and 
queen there. Soon after their conversion, the Saracens overran the 
country, and obliged them to renounce Christianity. When tho 
Emperor of Germany, the King of Poland, and other Christian 
princes, heard of this, they fell upon them, and obliged the whole 
of them, both great and small, to quit the country, and go to the 
Pope at Rome, who enjoined them seven years’ penance to wander 
over the world, without lying in a bed. 

“They had been wandering five years when they came to Paris 
first ; the principal people, and soon after the commonalty, about 
100 or 120, reduced (according to their own account) from 1000 or 
1200, when they went from home, the rest being dead, with theii 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


297 

king and queen. They were lodged by the police at some distance 
from the city, at Chapel St. Denis. 

“Nearly all of them had their ears bored, and wore two silver 
rings in each, which they said were esteemed ornaments in their 
country. The men were black, their hair curled ; the women 
remarkably black, their only clothes a large old duffle garment, tied 
over the shoulders with a cloth or cord, and under it a miserable 
rocket. In short, they were the most poor miserable creatures th,at 
had ever been seen in France ; and, notwithstanding their poverty, 
there were among them women who, by looking into people’s hands, 
told their fortunes, and what was worse, they picked people’s poc- 
kets of their money, and got it into their own, by telling these things 
through airy magic, et cpetera. ” 

Notwithstanding the ingenious account of themselves ren- 
dered by these gipsies, the Bishop of Paris ordered a friar, 
called Le Petit Jacobin, to preach a sermon, excommunicating 
all the men and women who had had recourse to these Bohe- 
mians on the subject of the future, and shown their hands for 
that purpose. They departed from Paris for Pontoise in the 
month of September. 

Pasquier remarks upon this singular journal, that however 
the story of a penance savours of a trick, these people wandered 
ap and down France, under the eye, and with the knowledge, 
of the magistrates, for more than a hundred years ; and it was 
not till 1561, that a sentence of banishment was passed against 
them in that kingdom. 

The arrival of the Egyptians (as these singular people were 
called) in various parts of Europe, corresponds with the period 
in which Timur or Tamerlane invaded Hindostan, affording its 
natives the choice between the Koran and death. There can 
be little doubt that these wanderers consisted originally of the 
Hindostanee tribes, who, displaced, and flying from the sabres 
of the Mahommedans, undertook this species of wandering life, 
without well knowing whither they were going. It is natural 
to suppose the band, as it now exists, is much mingled with 
Europeans, but most of these have been brought up from child- 
hood among them, and learned all their practices. 

It is strong evidence of this, that when they are in closest 
contact with the ordinary peasants around them, they still keep 
their language a mystery. There is little doubt, however, that 
it is a dialect of the Hindostanee, from the specimens produced 
by Grellman, Hoyland, and others, who have written on the 


298 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


subject. But the author has, besides their authority, personal 
occasion to know that an individual, out of mere curiosity, and 
availing himself with patience and assiduity of such opportu- 
nities as offered, has made himself capable of conversing with 
any gipsy whom he meets, or can, like the royal Hal, drink 
with any tinker in his own language. The astonishment 
excited among these vagrants on finding a stranger participant 
of their mystery, occasions very ludicrous scenes. It. is to be 
hoped this gentleman will publish the knowledge he possesses 
011 so singular a topic. 

There are prudential reasons for postponing this disclosure at 
present ; for although much more reconciled to society since 
they have been less the objects of legal persecution, the gipsies 
are still a ferocious and vindictive people. 

But notwithstanding this is certainly the case, I cannot but 
add, from my own observation of nearly fifty years, that the 
manners of these vagrant tribes are much ameliorated ; — that 
I have known individuals amongst them who have united them- 
selves to civilized society, and maintain respectable characters, 
and that great alteration has been wrought in their cleanliness 
and general mode of life. 


Note II., p. 231. — Galeotti. 

Martius Galeotti was a native of Narni, in Umbria He was 
secretary to Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, and tutor to 
his son, John Corvinus. While at his court, he composed a 
work, De jocose dictis et factis Regis Matthice Corvini. He left 
Hungary in 1477, and was made prisoner at Venice on a charge 
of having propagated heterodox opinions in a treatise entitled, 
De homine interiore et corpore ejus. He was obliged to recant 
some of these doctrines, and might have suffered seriously but 
for the protection of Sextus IV., then Pope, who had been one 
of his scholars. He went to France, attached himself to Louis 
XI., and died in his service. 


Note III., p. 264. — Religion of the Bohemians. 

It was a remarkable feature of the character of these wan- 
derers, that they did not, like the Jews, whom they otherwise 
resembled in some particulars, possess or profess any particu- 
lar religion, whether in form or principle. They readily 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


299 


conformed, as far as might be required, with the religion of any 
country in which they happened to sojourn, nor did they ever 
practise it more than was demanded of them. It is certain that 
in India they embraced neither the tenets of the religion of 
Bramah nor of Mahomet. They have hence been considered as 
belonging to the outcast East Indian tribes of Nuts or Parias. 
Their want of religion is supplied by a good deal of superstition. 
Such of their ritual as can be discovered, for example that 
belonging to marriage, is savage in the extreme, and resembles 
the customs of the Hottentots more than of any civilized people. 
They adopt 'various observances, picked up from the religion of 
the country in which they live. It is, or rather was, the custom 
of the tribes on the Borders of England and Scotland, to attri- 
bute success to those journeys which are commenced by passing 
through the parish church ; and they usually try to obtain per- 
mission from the beadle to do so when the church is empty, for 
the performance of divine service is not considered as essential 
to the omen. They are, therefore, totally devoid of any effectual 
sense of religion ; and the higher, or more instructed class, may 
be considered as acknowledging no deity save those of Epicurus, 
and such is described as being the faith, or no faith, of Hay- 
raddin Maugrabin. 

I may here take notice, that nothing is more disagreeable to 
this indolent and voluptuous people, then being forced to follow 
any regular profession. When Paris was garrisoned by the 
Allied troops in the year 1815, the author was walking with 
a British officer, near a post held by the Prussian troops. He 
happened at the time to smoke a cigar, and was about, while 
passing the sentinel, to take it out of his mouth, in compliance 
with a general regulation to that effect, when, greatly to the 
astonishment of the passengers, the soldier addressed them in 
these words : “ Rauchen sie immerfort; verdamt sey der Preussiche 
dienst ! ” that is, “ Smoke away ; may the Prussian service be 
d — d t ” Upon looking closely at the man, he seemed plainly 
to be a Zigeuner, or gipsy, who took this method of expressing 
his detestation of the duty imposed on him. When the risk he 
ran by doing so is considered, it will be found to argue a deep 
degree of dislike which could make him commit himself so 
unwarily. If he had been overheard by a sergeant or corporal, 
the prugel would have been the slightest instrument of punish- 
ment employed. 




.0 

; 








EDITOR’S NOTES. 


(а) p. xxiii. “ One or two peculiar forms of oath.** Louis 
XI. was not alone in his view of the oath. The Church, or 
popular superstition not subdued by the Church, made the 
virtue of the oath depend on a kind of magical sanction. 
Thus Harold swore on concealed relics of whose presence he 
was unaware till after his oath to William of Normandy was 
done. The cross-hilts of swords were enriched with relics, and 
used for swearing on. As, on one hand, the taker of an oath 
might be pledging himself on more than he was aware of, when 
relics were concealed, so he tried to defend himself by only 
admitting one or two oaths as really binding. The more 
obscure the saint or the relic which he chose, the better chance 
he had of not being pinned down to the oath which he revered. 
It is only fair to suppose that William Lamberton, Bishop of 
St. Andrews, in the reign of Edward I., had some oath which 
he respected. On great obvious oaths, however, like the Gos- 
pels, the Sacrament, the Holy Cross, the Black Rood of 
Scotland, the cross called Gnayth, and so forth, the Bishop 
perjured himself three or four deep, and, apparently, was 
none the worse. The oath which he did respect was never 
discovered by the English. 

(б) p. xxviii. “ An ignorant crack-brained peasant.” Corn- 
mines says (vi. 8) : 11 The king sent to seek from Calabria a 
man called Robert, ‘ The Holy Man/ so styled on account of 
the sanctity of his life. From the age of twelve to that of 
forty-three he had lived under a rock. Never had he eaten, 
nor has now, since he adopted this strictness, flesh, nor fish, 
nor eggs nor milk, and methinks I never saw a man of such 
sanctity, nor one in whom the Holy Spirit more manifestly 
spoke, for he was no clerk, nor had no skill of letters.” The 
Pope and Cardinals treated the hermit with great honour ; 
Louis kneeled before him as if he had been the Pope, “ to the 
end that he might lengthen his life. He answered as became 
a man of wisdom.” 


302 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


(c) p. xlii. “ The fickleness of fashion ” in gardening. In 
the proof-sheets of “ Redgauntlet ” we find Scott repeating the 
sense of this passage, and James Ballantyne remarking that it 
had occurred already in this place. 

(d) p. lvii. “ Dr. Dibdin.” The work referred to is in Dr. 
Dibdin’s “ Bibliographical, Antiquarian, and Picturesque Tour 
in France and Germany ” (1821, three vols. royal 8vo). 

(e) p. 6. “ Les Gent Nouvelles Nouvelles” Scott’s own 

edition was not “ the right edition ” here described, but that of 
Cologne 1736. 

(/) P- 7. “ The battle of Montl’herv.” See Commines, 

i. 3. The date was July 27, 1465. 

(g) p. 10. “ About the year 1468.” Scott elsewhere ex- 

plains the slight anachronism as to the murder of the Bishop 
of Liege, which took place some fourteen years later. The 
extraordinary defences, too, of Plessis-les-Tours are assigned by 
Commines to the suspiciousness of the King’s latest years 
(vi. 7) : “ Tout a l’environ de la place dudit Plessis il feit faire 

un treillis de gros barreaux de fer etc.” 

(h) p. 19. “ His cap, in particular.” “ Our king wore a 

very short habit, so shabby that nought could be worse, and a 
bad enough cloth he always wore, and a bad hat (un mauvais 
chapeau) he had unlike others, and a leaden image in it.” 
(Commines, ii. 8.) 

(i) p. 35. “ The covin- tree.” There is a large oak-tree of 

this kind, outside the ruined tower of Earlston, on the Ken, in 
Galloway, once a seat of the Covenanting Gordons. A similar 
tree, an ash, “ the hanging tree,” at Tushielaw, on the Ettrick, 
was lately burned down. At Branxholme only a stump of the 
Hanging Tree, an ash, now remains. These trees have as fatal 
a reputation as those “dans le verger du Roi Louis.” 

( k ) p. 77. “ Oliver Dain.” Commines calls Maitre Olivier 

“ a native of a village near Ghent.” Louis sent him to reduce 
that town to his obedience, and Commines ventured to say that 
he expected little good from the mission. Oliver, when he 
met the daughter of Charles the Bold, was “ vesti trop mieulx 
qu’il ne luy appartenoit ” (“ better dressed than became him ”). 
He was informed that he had better depart, before he was 
thrown into the river. He styled himself Comte Meullanc. 
He managed to seize Tournay for the King, and Commines 
admits, like Balafre in the novel, that a person of more conse- 
quence might have been less successful. (Commines, v. 13. ) 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


303 


(D p. 177. Murder of John of Burgundy. (See Commines, 
iv. 9.) The Dtike and the King met on the Bridge of Monte- 
reau, with a barrier between them. The Duke opened the door 
on his side and crossed : “ incontinent il fut tue ” — instantly 
he was slain, and those with him, whence came many evils. The 
murder was done to avenge the Duke of Orleans. “ Grande 
folie est a deux grands Princes, qui sont eomme esgaulx en puis- 
sance, de s’entrevoir,” says Commines* It will be remembered 
that Henry VIII. constantly desired a personal interview with 
Janies V., which Cardinal Beaton always opposed. Perhaps 
the Cardinal was of the same mind as Commines. 

(m) p. 183. “His remarks, always shrewd and caustic.” 
See Commines, iv. 10, where the King, having broken a jest 
against the English in presence of a Gascon residing usually in 
England, felt obliged to buy the man’s silence. “ Et ainsi se 
condemnat le Roy en ceste amende, cognoissant qu’il avoit trop 
parle.” 

(w.) p. 194. “ l am Joan of France.” “ La Royne s’estoit 

delivree d’une belle filled saysthe Chronique of Jean de Troyes 
(1464). On May 19, 1464, Louis d’Orleans, afterwards Louis 
XII., at this time scarcely two years old, was betrothed in a 
manner, “ il y eut des accords signes pour le mariage,” to 
Jeanne de France, 

( 0 ) p. 203. “ A manuscript copy of the Chronique Scandal - 

euse of Jean de Troyes.” The chronicle, as it exists, is not 
“ scandalous ” at -all, though Brantome calls it sanglante. 
(“ Oeuvres,” La Haye 1740, vi. 38.) 

(p) p. 222. “ His Jacob’s staff.” This is merely the divining- 
rod usually made of a hazel fork, as described in the Editor’s 
Notes to “ The Fortunes of Nigel.” 

( q ) p. 255. “An invention ... of Cardinal Balue.” Com- 
mines himself occupied one of these cages of Little Ease for 
eight months, “ soubs le Roy de present.” He describes the 
cage as eight feet wide, and a foot higher than a man. 
(Commines, 13.) He says that Balue's captivity lasted for 
fourteen years. 

Andrew Lang. 

November 1893. 











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GLOSSARY 


$ 




Abye, to pay the penalty for. to 
suffer. 

Ain, own. 

Aught, possessions. 

Auld, old. 


Bairn, a child. 

Beauffet, a sideboard. 

“ Bifteck de mouton,” a beef- 
steak of mutton. 

Brae, a hill. 

Braeman, one who lives on the 
southern slope of the Gram- 
pians. 

Brant we in, brandy. 

Brogue, the Highland shoe. 

Browst, a brewing , as much as 
is brewed at one time. 


Callant, a boy, a stripling. 
Caserne, barracks. 
Chouse, to swindle. 

Craig, the neck. 


Deas, the seat of honour. 

Demi-volte, a half-turn made hy 
a horse with the forelegs raised. 

Eblis, in Mohammedan mythol- 
ogy, the chief of the fallen 
angels. 

Gaed, went. 

Gear, affair, goods. 

Gillie, a Highland servant. 


Gramercy, many thanks. 

Grub Street — once famous for 
its literary hacks. 


Halid ome, honour. 
Hunting-mass, the prayers with- 
out the consecration. 


Jackmen, men retained for fight- 
ing purposes. 


Liard, a small silver coin. 

“ Lie leaguer,” to remain sta- 
tionary, fixed. 

'* Linea vitae,” in palmistry, a 
line on the hand. 

List please. 


“ Mahomet’s coffin,” said to be 
hung in mid-air between two 
magnets. 

Mahound, a contemptuous name 
for Mahomet. 

Maigre, applied to soup made 
without meat. 

Malapert, impertinent. 

MarechaussSe, a company of 
horse-patrols. 

Meikle, much. 


Partisan, a pike. 

Pasques-Dieu, the favourite oath 
of Louis XI. 

Pirn, the yarn wound on a reel; 


3o6 


GLOSSARY. 


lit. a reel round which thread 
is wound. 

Polk, Pulk, or body of Cossacks. 
Prime, midnight service. 


Rebec, a three-stringed violin. 
Romaunt, a poetical romance. 
Rouse, a draught. 

Ruffle, a riot, a disturbance; to 
swagger. 

Runlet, a small barrel. 


Sae, so. 

Schelm, a rogue. 


Skaith, harm, hurt. 

Spreagh, prey, booty. 

Springald, a youth. 

Straick, grain stroked off the 
top of the bushel in measur- 
ing. 

Tasker, a labourer. 

To-name. A name added, for 
the sake of distinction, to one’s 
surname. 


Weel, well. 


QUENTIN DURWARD 


La guerre est in a patrie, 
Mon harnois ma maison. 
Kt en toute saison 
Combattre c’est ma vie. 



QUENTIN DURWARD 


CHAPTER I. 

PALMISTRY. 

When many a merry tale and many a song 

Cheer’d the rough road, we wish’d the rough road long. 

The rough road, then, returning in a round. 

Mock’d our enchanted steps, for all was fairy ground. 

Samuel Johnson. 

By peep of day Quentin Durward had forsaken 
his little cell, had roused the sleepy grooms, and, 
with more than his wonted care, seen that every 
thing was prepared for the day’s journey. Girths 
and bridles, the horse-furniture, and the shoes of 
the horses themselves, were carefully inspected with 
his own eyes, that there might be as little chance 
as possible of the occurrence of any of those casual- 
ties, which, petty as they seem, often interrupt or 
disconcert travelling. The horses were also, under 
his own inspection, carefully fed, so as to render 
them fit for a long day’s journey, or, if that should 
be necessary, for a hasty flight. 

Quentin then betook himself to his own cham- 
ber, armed himself with unusual care, and belted on 
his sword with the feeling at once of approaching 


2 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

danger, and of stern determination to dare it to the 
uttermost. 

These generous feelings gave him a loftiness of 
step, and a dignity of manner, which the Ladies 
of Croye had not yet observed in him, though they 
had been highly pleased and interested by- the grace, 
yet naivete, of his general behaviour and conversa- 
tion, and the mixture of shrewd intelligence which 
naturally belonged to him, with the simplicity 
arising from his secluded education and distant 
country. He let them understand, that it would be 
necessary that they should prepare for their journey 
this morning rather earlier than usual ; and, accord- 
ingly, they left the convent immediately after a 
morning repast, for which, as well as the other hos- 
pitalities of the House, the ladies made acknow- 
ledgment by a donation to the altar, befitting rather 
their rank than their appearance. But this excited 
no suspicion, as they were supposed to be English- 
women ; and the attribute of superior wealth 
attached at that time to the insular character as 
strongly as in our own day. 

The Prior blessed them as they mounted to de- 
part, and congratulated Quentin on the absence of 
his heathen guide ; “ for,” said the venerable man, 
“ better stumble in the path, than be upheld by the 
arm of a thief or robber.” 

Quentin was not quite of his opinion ; for, dan- 
gerous as he knew the Bohemian to be, he thought 
he could use his services, and, at the same time, 
baffle his treasonable purpose, now that he saw 
clearly to what it tended. But his anxiety upon 
this subject was soon at an end, for the little caval- 
cade was not an hundred yards from the monastery 
and the village before Maugrabin joined it, riding 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3 


as usual on his little active and wild-looking jennet. 
Their road led them along the side of the same 
brook where Quentin had overheard the mysterious 
conference of the preceding evening, and Hayraddin 
had not long rejoined them, ere they passed under 
the very willow-tree which had afforded Durward 
the means of concealment, when he became an un- 
suspected bearer of what then passed betwixt that 
false guide and the lanzknecht. 

The recollections which the spot brought back 
stirred Quentin to enter abruptly into conversation 
with his guide, whom hitherto he had scarce spoken 
to. 

“ Where hast thou found night-quarter, thou pro- 
fane knave ? ” said the Scot. 

“ Your wisdom may guess, by looking on my 
gaberdine,” answered the Bohemian, pointing to his 
dress, which was covered with the seeds of hay. 

“ A good hay-stack,” said Quentin, “ is a conve- 
nient bed for an astrologer, and a much better than 
a heathen scoffer at our blessed religion, and its 
ministers, ever deserves.” 

“ It suited my Klepper better than me, though,” 
said Hayraddin, patting his horse on the neck ; “ for 
he had food and shelter at the same time. The old 
bald fools turned him loose, as if a wise man’s horse 
could have infected with wit or sagacity a whole 
convent of asses. Lucky that Klepper knows my 
whistle, and follows me as truly as a hound, or we 
had never met again, and you in your turn might 
have whistled for a guide.” 

“ I have told thee more than once,” said Dur- 
ward, sternly, “ to restrain thy ribaldry when thou^ 
chancest to he in worthy men’s company, a thing 
which, I believe, hath rarely happened to thee in 


4 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 

thy life before now ; and I promise thee, that, did 1 
hold thee as faithless a guide as I esteem thee a 
blasphemous and worthless caitiff, my Scottish dirk 
and thy heathenish heart had ere now been ac- 
quainted, although the doing such a deed were as 
ignoble as the sticking of swine.” 

“ A wild boar is near akin to a sow,” said the 
Bohemian, without flinching from the sharp look 
with which Quentin regarded him, or altering, in 
the slightest degree, the caustic indifference which 
he affected in his language; “and many men,” he 
subjoined, “ find both pride, pleasure, and profit, in 
sticking them.” 

Astonished at the man’s ready confidence, and 
uncertain whether he did not know more of his own 
history and feelings than was pleasant for him to 
converse upon, Quentin broke off a conversation in 
which he had gained no advantage over Maugra- 
bin, and fell back to his accustomed post beside the 
ladies. 

We have already observed, that a considerable 
degree of familiarity had begun to establish itself 
between them. The elder Countess treated him 
(being once well assured of the nobility of his birth) 
like a favoured equal ; and though her niece showed 
her regard to their protector less freely, yet, under 
every disadvantage of bashfulness and . timidity, 
Quentin thought he could plainly perceive, that his 
company and conversation were not by any means 
indifferent to her. 

Nothing gives such life and soul to youthful 
gaiety as the consciousness that it is successfully 
received ; and Quentin had accordingly, during the 
fbrmer period of their journey, amused his fair 
charge with the liveliness of his conversation, and 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


5 


the songs and tales of his country, the former of 
which he sung in his native language, while his 
efforts to render the latter into his foreign and 
imperfect French, gave rise to a hundred little 
mistakes and errors of speech, as diverting as the 
narratives themselves. But on this anxious morn- 
ing, he rode beside the ladies of Croye without any 
of . his usual attempts to amuse them, and they 
could not help observing his silence as something 
remarkable. 

“ Our young companion has seen a wolf,” said the 
Lady Hameline, alluding to an ancient superstition, 
“ and he has lost his tongue in consequence.” 1 

“ To say I had tracked a fox were nearer the 
mark,” thought Quentin, but gave the reply no 
utterance. 

“ Are you well, Seignior Quentin ? ” said the 
Countess Isabelle, in a tone of interest at which 
she herself blushed, while she felt that it was 
something more than the distance between them 
warranted. 

“ He hath sat up carousing with the jolly friars,” 
said the Lady Hameline ; “ the Scots are like the 
Germans, who spend all their mirth over the Rhein- 
wein, and bring only their staggering steps to the 
dance in the evening, and their aching heads to the 
ladies’ bower in the morning.” 

“ Nay, gentle ladies,” said Quentin, “ I deserve 
not your reproach. The good friars were at their 

1 Vox quoque Moerim 

Jam fugit ipsa ; lupi Moerim videre priores. 

Virgilii, ix. ecloga. 

The commentators add, in explanation of this passage, the opi- 
nion of Pliny : “ The being beheld by a wolf in Italy is accounted 
noxious, and is supposed to take away the speech of a man, if these 
animals behold him ere he sees them.” 


6 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

devotions almost all night ; and for myself, my drink 
was barely a cup of their thinnest and most ordinary 
wine.” 

“ It is the badness of his fare that has put him 
out of humour,” said the Countess Isabelle. “ Cheer 
up, Seignior Quentin ; and should we ever visit 
my ancient Castle of Bracquemont together, if 1 
myself should stand your cup-bearer, and hand it 
to you, you shall have a generous cup of wine, that 
the like never grew upon the vines of Hochheim or 
Joliannisberg.” 

“ A glass of water, noble lady, from your hand ” — 
Thus far did Quentin begin, but his voice trembled ; 
and Isabelle continued, as if she had been insen- 
sible of the tenderness of the accentuation upon 
the personal pronoun. 

“The wine was stocked in the deep vaults of 
Bracquemont, by my great-grandfather the Rhine- 
grave Godfrey,” said the Countess Isabelle. 

“ Who won the hand of her great-grandmother,” 
interjected the Lady Hameline, interrupting her 
niece, “by proving himself the best son of chivalry, 
at the great tournament of Strasbourg — ten knights 
were slain in the lists. But those days are over, 
and no one now thinks of encountering peril for the 
sake of honour, or to relieve distressed beauty.” 

To this speech, which was made in the tone in 
which a modern beauty, whose charms are rather 
on the wane, may be heard to condemn the rude- 
ness of the present age, Quentin took mpon him 
to reply, “ that there was no lack of that chivalry 
which the Lady Hameline seemed to consider as 
extinct, and that, were it eclipsed everywhere else, 
it would still glow in the bosoms of the Scottish 
gentlemen.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


7 


- Hear him ! ” said the Lady Hameline ; “ he 
would have us believe, that in his cold and bleak 
country still lives the noble fire which has decayed 
in France and Germany ! The poor youth is like 
a Swiss mountaineer, mad with partiality to his 
native land — he will next tell us of the vines and 
olives of Scotland.” 

“ No, madam,” said Durward ; “ of the wine and 
the oil of our mountains I can say little, more than 
that our swords can compel these rich productions, 
as tribute from our wealthier neighbours. But for 
the unblemished faith and unfaded honour of Scot- 
land, I must now put to the proof how far you can 
repose trust in them, however mean the individual 
who can offer nothing more as a pledge of your 
safety.” 

“You speak mysteriously — you know of some 
pressing and present danger,” said the Lady 
Hameline. 

“ I have read it in his eye for this hour past ! ” 
exclaimed the Lady Isabelle, clasping her hands. 
“ Sacred Virgin, what will become of us ? ” 

“ Nothing, I hope, but what you would desire,” 
answered Durward. “ And now I am compelled to 
ask — Gentle ladies, can you trust me ? ” 

“ Trust you ? ” answered the Countess Hameline 
— “ certainly — But why the question ? Or how 
far do you ask our confidence ? ” 

“ I, on my part,” said the Countess Isabelle, “ trust 
you implicitly, and without condition. If you can 
deceive us, Quentin, I will no more look for truth, 
save in Heaven.” 

“ Gentle lady,” replied Durward, highly grati- 
fied, “ you do me but justice. My object is to alter 
our route, by proceeding directly by the left bank 


8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 

of the Maes to Liege, instead of crossing at Namur. 
This differs from the order assigned by King Louis, 
and the instructions given to the guide. But I 
heard news in the monastery of marauders on the 
right bank of the Maes, and of the march of Bur- 
gundian soldiers to suppress them. Both circum- 
stances alarm me for your safety. Have I your 
permission so far to deviate from the route of your 
journey ? ” 

“My ample and full permission,” answered the 
younger lady. 

“ Cousin,” said the Lady Hameline, “ I believe 
with you, that the youth means us well ; — but be- 
think you — we transgress the instructions of King 
Louis, so positively iterated.” 

“ And why should we regard his instructions ? ” 
said the Lady Isabelle. “I am, I thank Heaven 
for it, no subject of his ; and, as a suppliant, he has 
abused the confidence he induced me to repose in 
him. I would not dishonour this young gentleman 
by weighing his word for an instant against the 
injunctions of yonder crafty and selfish despot.” 

“ Now, may God bless you for that very word, 
lady,” said Quentin, joyously; “and if I deserve 
not the trust it expresses, tearing with wild horses 
in this life, and eternal tortures in the next, were 
e’en too good for my deserts.” 

So saying, he spurred his horse, and rejoined the 
Bohemian. This worthy seemed of a remarkably 
passive, if not a forgiving temper. Injury or threat 
never dwelt, or at least seemed not to dwell, on his 
recollection ; and he entered into the conversation 
which Durward presently commenced, just as if 
there had been no unkindly word betwixt them in 
the course of the morning. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


9 


“The dog,” thought the Scot, “snarls not now, be- 
cause he intends to clear scores with me at once and 
for ever, when he can snatch me by the very throat ; 
but we will try for once whether we cannot foil a 
traitor at his own weapons. — Honest Hayraddin,” 
he said, “ thou hast travelled with us for ten days, 
yet hast never shown us a specimen of your skill 
in fortune- telling ; which you are, nevertheless, so 
fond of practising, that you must needs display your 
gifts in every convene at which we stop, at the 
risk of being repaid by a night’s lodging under a 
haystack.” 

“You have never asked me for a specimen of 
my skill,” said the gipsy. “ You are like the rest 
of the world, contented to ridicule those mysteries 
which they do not understand.” 

“Give me then a present proof of your skill,” 
said Quentin ; and, ungloving his hand, he held it 
out to the Zingaro. 

Hayraddin carefully regarded all the lines which 
crossed each other on the Scotchman’s palm, and 
noted, with equally scrupulous attention, the little 
risings or swellings at the roots of the fingers, 
which were then believed as intimately connected 
with the disposition, habits, and fortunes of the indi- 
vidual, as the organs of the brain are pretended to 
be in our own time. 

“Here is a hand,” said Hayraddin, “which 
speaks of toils endured, and dangers encountered. 
I read in it an early acquaintance with the hilt of 
the sword; and yet some acquaintance also with 
the clasps of the mass-book.” 

“ This of my past life you may have learned 
elsewhere,” said Quentin; “tell me something of 
the future.” 


10 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


“This line from the hill of Venus,” said the Bo- 
hemian, “ not broken off abruptly, but attending 
and accompanying the line of life, argues a certain 
and large fortune by marriage, whereby the party 
shall be raised among the wealthy and the noble by 
the influence of successful love.” 

“Such promises you make to all who ask your 
advice,” said Quentin ; “they are part of your art.” 

“ What I tell you is as certain,” said Hayraddin, 
“ as that you shall in a brief space be menaced with 
mighty danger ; which I infer from this bright 
blood-red line cutting the table-line transversely, 
and intimating stroke of sword, or other violence, 
from which you shall only be saved by the attach- 
ment of a faithful friend.” 

“ Thyself, ha ? ” said Quentin, somewhat indignant 
that the chiromantist should thus practise on his 
credulity, and endeavour to found a reputation by 
predicting the consequences of his own treachery. 

“ My art,” replied the Zingaro, “ tells me nought 
that concerns myself.” 

“ In this, then, the seers of my land,” said Quen- 
tin, “ excel your boasted knowledge ; for their skill 
teaches them the dangers by which they are them- 
selves beset. I left not my hills without having 
felt a portion of the double vision with which their 
inhabitants are gifted ; and I will give thee a proof 
of it, in exchange for thy specimen of palmistry. 
Hayraddin, the danger which threatens me lies on 
the right bank of the river — I will avoid it by 
travelling to Liege on the left bank.” 

The guide listened with an apathy, which, know- 
ing the circumstances in which Maugrabin stood, 
Quentin could not by any means comprehend. “If 
you accomplish your purpose,” was the Bohemian’s 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


11 


reply, “the dangerous crisis will be transferred 
from your lot to mine.” 

“ I thought,” said Quentin, “ that you said but 
now, that you could not presage your own fortune ? ” 

“Not in the manner in which I have but now 
told you yours,” answered Hayraddin ; “ but it re- 
quires little knowledge of Louis of Valois, to pre- 
sage that he will hang your guide, because your 
pleasure was to deviate from the road which he 
recommended.” 

“ The attaining with safety the purpose of the 
journey, and ensuring its happy termination,” said 
Quentin, “ must atone for a deviation from the 
exact line of the prescribed route.” 

“ Ay,” replied the Bohemian, “ if you are sure that 
the King had in his own eye the same termination 
of the pilgrimage which he insinuated to you.” 

“ And of what other termination is it possible that 
he could have been meditating ? or why should you 
suppose he had any purpose in his thought, other than 
was avowed in his direction ? ” enquired Quentin. 

“Simply,” replied the Zingaro, “that those who 
know aught of the Most Christian King, are aware, 
that the purpose about which he is most anxious, 
is always that which he is least willing to declare. 
Let our gracious Louis send twelve embassies, and 
I will forfeit my neck to the gallcws a year before 
it is due, if in eleven of them there is not some- 
thing at the bottom of the ink-horn more than the 
pen Las written in the letters of credence.” 

“I regard not your foul suspicions,” answered 
Quentin ; “ my duty is plain and peremptory — to 
convey these ladies in safety to Liege ; and I take 
it on me to think that I best discharge that duty 
in changing our prescribed route, and keeping the 


12 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


left side of the river Maes. It is likewise the 
direct road to Liege. By crossing the river, we 
should lose time, and incur fatigue, to no purpose 
— Wherefore should we do so ? ” 

“ Only because pilgrims, as they call themselves, 
destined for Cologne,” said Ilayraddin, “do not 
usually descend the Maes so low as Liege ; and that 
the route of the ladies will be accounted contradic- 
tory of their professed destination.” 

“If we are challenged on that account,” said 
Quentin, “ we will say that alarms of the wicked 
Duke of Gueldres, or of William de la Marck, or 
of the Ecorcheurs and lanzknechts,.on the right side of 
the river, justify our holding by the left, instead of 
our intended route.” 

“ As you will, my good seignior,” replied the 
Bohemian — “I am, ‘for my part, equally ready to 
guide you down the left as down the right side of 
the Maes — Your excuse to your master you must 
make out for yourself.” 

Quentin, although rather surprised, was at the 
same time pleased with the ready, or at least the 
unrepugnant acquiescence of Hayraddin in their 
change of route, for he needed his assistance as a 
guide, and yet had feared that the disconcerting of 
his intended act of treachery would have driven 
him to extremity. Besides, to expel the Bohemian 
from their society, would have been the ready mode 
to bring down William de la Marck, with whom he 
was in correspondence, upon their intended route ; 
whereas if Hayraddin remained with them, Quentin 
thought he could manage to prevent the Moor from 
having any communication with strangers, unless 
he was himself aware of it. 

Abandoning, therefore, all thoughts of their orig- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


13 


inal route, the little party followed that by the left 
bank of the broad Maes, so speedily and success- 
fully, that the next day early brought them to the 
purposed end of their journey. They found that 
the Bishop of Liege, for the sake of his health, as 
he himself alleged, but rather, perhaps, to avoid 
being surprised by the numerous and mutinous 
population of the city, had established his residence 
in his beautiful Castle of Schonwaldt, about a mile 
without Liege. 

Just as they approached the Castle, they saw the 
Prelate returning in long procession from the neigh- 
bouring city, in which he had been officiating at the 
performance of High Mass. He was at the head 
of a splendid train of religious, civil,* and military 
men, mingled together, or, as the old ballad-maker 
expresses it, 

“With many a cross-bearer before, 

And many a spear behind.” 

The procession made a noble appearance, as, wind- 
ing along the verdant banks of the broad Maes, it 
wheeled into, and was as it were devoured by, the 
huge Gothic portal of the Episcopal residence. 

But when the party came more near, they found 
that circumstances around the Castle argued a doubt 
and sense of insecurity, which contradicted that dis- 
play of pomp and power which they Jiad just wit- 
nessed. Strong guards of the Bishop’s soldiers were 
heedfully maintained all around the mansion and 
its immediate vicinity ; and the prevailing appear- 
ances in an ecclesiastical residence, seemed to argue 
a sense of danger in the reverend Prelate, who found 
it necessary thus to surround himself with all the 
defensive precautions of war. The ladies of Croye, 


14 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


when announced by Quentin, were reverently ush- 
ered into the great Hall, where they met with the 
most cordial reception from the Bishop, who met 
them there at the head of his little Court. He 
would not permit them to kiss his hand, but wel- 
comed them with a salute, which had something in 
it of gallantry on the part of a prince to fine women, 
and something also of the holy affection of a pastor 
to the sisters of his flock. 

Louis of Bourbon, the reigning Bishop of Liege , 
was in truth a generous and kind-hearted prince ; 
whose life had not indeed been always confined, 
with precise strictness, within the bounds of his 
clerical profession ; hut who, notwithstanding, had 
uniformly maintained the frank and honourable 
character of the House of Bourbon, from which he 
was descended. 

In later times, as age advanced, the Prelate had 
adopted habits more beseeming a member of the 
hierarchy than his early reign had exhibited, and 
was loved among the neighbouring princes, as a 
noble ecclesiastic, generous and magnificent in his 
ordinary mode of life, though preserving no very 
ascetic severity of character, and governing with 
an easy indifference, which, amid his wealthy and 
mutinous subjects, rather encouraged than subdued 
rebellious purposes. 

The Bishop was so fast an ally of the Duke of 
Burgundy, that the latter claimed almost a joint 
sovereignty in his bishopric, and repaid the good- 
natured ease with which the Prelate admitted claims 
which he might easily have disputed, by taking his 
part on all occasions, with the determined and 
furious zeal which was a part of his character. He 
used to say, he considered Liege as his own, the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


15 


Bishop as his brother, (indeed they might be ac- 
counted such, in consequence of the Duke having 
married for his first wife, the Bishop’s sister,) and 
that he who annoyed Louis of Bourbon, had to do 
with Charles of Burgundy ; a threat which, con- 
sidering the character and the power of the prince 
who used it, would have been powerful with any 
hut the rich and discontented city of Liege, where 
much wealth had, according to the ancient proverb, 
made wit waver. 

The Prelate, as we have said, assured the Ladies 
of Croye of such intercession a's his interest at the 
Court of Burgundy, used to the uttermost, might 
gain for them, and which, he hoped, might be the 
more effectual, as Campo-Bassft, from some late dis- 
coveries, stood rather lower than formerly in the 
Duke’s personal favour. He promised them also 
such protection as it was in his power to afford ; 
but the sigh with which he gave the warrant, seemed 
to allow that his power was more precarious than 
in words he was willing to admit. 

“At every event, my dearest daughters,” said 
the Bishop, with an air in which, as in his previous 
salute, a mixture of spiritual unction qualified the 
hereditary gallantry of the House of Bourbon, 
“ Heaven forbid I should abandon the lamb to the 
wicked wolf, or noble ladies to the oppression of 
faitours. I am a man of peace, though my abode 
now rings with arms ; hut be assured I will care 
for your safety as for my own ; and should matters 
become yet more distracted here, which, with our 
Lady’s grace, we trust will be rather pacified than 
inflamed, we will provide for your safe-conduct to 
Germany ; for not even the will of our brother and 
protector, Charles of Burgundy, shall prevail with 


i6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


us to dispose of you in any respect contrary to your 
own inclinations. We cannot comply with your 
request of sending you to a convent ; for, alas ! such 
is the influence of the sons of Belial among the 
inhabitants of Liege, that we know no retreat to 
which our authority extends, beyond the bounds of 
our own castle, and the protection of our soldiery. 
But here you are most welcome, and your train shall 
have all honourable entertainment ; especially this 
youth, whom you recommend so particularly to our 
countenance, and on whom in especial we bestow 
our blessing.” 

Quentin kneeled, as in duty bound, to receive 
the Episcopal benediction. 

“For yourselves,” proceeded the good Prelate, 
“ you shall reside here with my sister Isabelle, a 
Canoness of Triers, and with whom you may dwell 
in all honour, even under the roof of so gay a 
bachelor as the Bishop of Liege.” 

He gallantly conducted the ladies to his sister’s 
apartment, as he concluded the harangue of weL 
come ; and his Master of the Household, an officer, 
who, having taken Deacon’s orders, held something 
between a secular and ecclesiastical character, en- 
tertained Quentin with the hospitality which his 
master enjoined, while the other personages of the 
retinue of the Ladies of Croye were committed to 
the inferior departments. 

In this arrangement Quentin could not help re- 
marking, that the presence of the Bohemian, so 
much objected to in country convents, seemed, in 
the household of this wealthy, and perhaps we 
might say worldly prelate, to attract neither ob- 
jection nor remark. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE CITY. 

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To any sudden act of mutiny ! 

Julius Ccesar. 


Separated from the Lady Isabelle, whose looks 
had been for so many days his load-star, Quentin 
felt a strange vacancy and chillness of the heart, 
which he had not yet experienced in any of the 
vicissitudes to which his life had subjected him. 
No doubt the cessation of the close and unavoid- 
able intercourse and intimacy betwixt them was 
the necessary consequence of the Countess having 
obtained a place of settled residence ; for, under 
what pretext could she, had she meditated such an 
impropriety, have had a gallant young squire, such 
as Quentin, in constant attendance upon her ? 

But the shock of the separation was not the more 
welcome that it seemed unavoidable, and the proud 
heart of Quentin swelled at finding he was parted 
with like an ordinary postilion, or an escort whose 
duty is discharged ; while his eyes sympathized so 
far as to drop a secret tear or two over the ruins 
of all those airy castles, so many of which he had 
employed himself in constructing during their too 
interesting journey. He made a manly, but, at first, 
a vain effoi t, to throw off this mental dejection ; and 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


18 

so, yielding to the feelings he could not suppress, 
he sat him down in one of the deep recesses formed 
by a window which lighted the great Gothic hall 
of Schonwaldt, and there mused upon his hard 
fortune, which had not assigned him rank or wealth 
sufficient to prosecute his daring suit. 

Quentin tried to dispel the sadness which over- 
hung him by dispatching Charlet, one of the valets, 
with letters to the court of Louis, announcing the 
arrival of the Ladies of Croye at Liege. At length 
his natural buoyancy of temper returned, much 
excited by the title of an old romctunt which had 
been just printed at Strasbourg, and which lay 
beside him in the window, the title of which set 
forth, 

How the Squire of lowe degree, 

Loved the King’s daughter of Hongarie. 

While he was tracing the “ letters blake ” of the 
ditty so congenial to his own situation, Quentin 
was interrupted by a touch on the shoulder, and, 
looking up, beheld the Bohemian standing by him. 

Hayraddin, never a welcome sight, w T as odious 
from his late treachery, and Quentin sternly asked 
him, why he dared take the freedom to touch a 
Christian and a gentleman ? 

“ Simply,” answered the Bohemian, “ because 
I wished to know if the Christian gentleman had 
lost his feeling as well as his eyes and ears. I have 
stood speaking to you these five minutes, and you 
have stared on that scrap of yellow paper, as if it 
were a spell to turn you into a statue, and had al- 
ready wrought half its purpose.” 

“ Well, what dost thou want? Speak, and 
begone ! ” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


i9 


“ I want what all men want, though few are sat- 
isfied with it,” said Hayraddin ; “I want my due ; my 
ten crowns of gold for guiding the ladies hither.” 

“ With what face darest thou ask any guerdon be- 
yond my sparing thy worthless life ?” said Durward, 
fiercely; “thou knowest that it was thy purpose to 
have betrayed them on the road.” 

“ But I did not betray them,” said Hayraddin ; 
“ if I had, I would have asked no guerdon from you 
or from them, but from him whom their keeping 
upon the right-hand side of the river might have 
benefited. The party that I have served is the 
party who must pay me.” 

“ Thy guerdon perish with thee, then, traitor ! ” 
said Quentin, telling out the money. “Get thee 
to the Boar of Ardennes, or to the devil ! but keep 
hereafter out of my sight, lest I send thee thither 
before thy time.” 

“ The Boar of Ardennes ! ” repeated the Bohemian, 
with a stronger emotion of surprise than his features 
usually expressed ; “ it was then no vague guess — • 
no general suspicion — which made you insist on 
changing the road ? — Can it he — are there really 
in other lands arts of prophecy more sure than those 
of our wandering tribes ? The willow-tree under 
which we spoke could tell no tales. But no — no 

— no — Dolt that I was ! — I have it — I have it ! 

— The willow by the brook near yonder convent — 
I saw you look towards it as you passed it, about 
half a mile from yon hive of drones — that could 
not indeed speak, but it might hide one who could 
hear ! I will hold my councils in an open plain 
henceforth ; not a bunch of thistles shall be near 
me for a Scot to shroud amongst — Ha ! ha ! the 
Scot hath beat the Zingaro at his own subtle 


20 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


weapons. But know, Quentin Durward, that you 
have foiled me to the marring of thine own fortune 
— Yes ! the fortune I told thee of, from the lines 
on thy hand, had been richly accomplished but for 
thine own obstinacy.” 

“By Saint Andrew,” said Quentin, “thy impu- 
dence makes me laugh in spite of myself — How, 
or in what, should thy successful villainy have been 
of service to me ? I heard, indeed, that you did 
stipulate to save my life, which condition your 
worthy allies would speedily have forgotten, had 
we once come to blows — but in what thy betrayal 
of these ladies could have served me, but by expos- 
ing me to death or captivity, is a matter beyond 
human brains to conjecture.” 

“No matter thinking of it, then,” said Hayraddin, 
“ for I mean still to surprise you with my gratitude. 
Had you kept back my hire, I should have held that 
we were quit, and had left you to your own foolish 
guidance. As it is, I remain your debtor for yonder 
matter on the banks of the Cher.” 

“ Methinks I have already taken out the payment 
in cursing and abusing thee,” said Quentin. 

“Hard words, or kind ones,” said the Zingaro, 
“are but wind, which make no weight in the 
balance. Had you struck me, indeed, instead of 
threatening ” 

“ I am likely enough to take out payment in that 
way, if you provoke me longer.” 

“ I would not advise it,” said the Zingaro ; “ such 
payment, made by a rash hand, might exceed the 
debt, and unhappily leave a balance on your side, 
which I am not one to forget or forgive. And now 
farewell, but not for a long space — I go to bid adieu 
to the Ladies of Croye.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


21 


“Thou?” said Quentin in astonishment — “thou 
be admitted to the presence of the ladies, and here, 
where they are in a manner recluses under the pro- 
tection of the Bishop’s sister, a noble canoness ? It 
is impossible.” 

“ Marthon, however, waits to conduct me to their 
presence,” said the Zingaro, with a sneer ; “ and I 
must pray your forgiveness if I leave you something 
abruptly.” 

He turned as if to depart, but instantly coming 
back, said, with a tone of deep and serious emphasis, 
“ I know your hopes — they are daring, yet not vain 
if I aid them. I know your fears — they should teach 
prudence, not timidity. Every woman may be won. 
A count is but a nickname, which will befit Quentin 
as well as the other nickname of duke befits Charles, 
or that of king befits Louis.” 

Ere Durward could reply, the Bohemian had left 
the hall. Quentin instantly followed ; but, better 
acquainted than the Scot with the passages of the 
house, Hayraddin kept the .advantage which he had 
gotten ; and the pursuer lost sight of him as he 
descended a small back staircase. Still Durward 
followed, though without exact consciousness of his 
own purpose in doing so. The staircase terminated 
by a door opening into the alley of a garden, in 
which he again beheld the Zingaro hastening down 
a pleached walk. 

On two sides, the garden was surrounded by the 
buildings of the castle — a huge old pile, partly 
castellated, and partly resembling an ecclesiastical 
building ; on the other two sides, the enclosure was 
a high embattled wall. Crossing the alleys of the 
garden to another part of the building, where a 
postern-door opened behind a large massive buttress, 


22 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


overgrown with ivy, Hayraddin looked back, and 
waved his hand in signal of an exulting farewell to 
his follower, who saw that in effect the postern-door 
was opened by Marthon, and that the vile Bohemian 
was admitted into the precincts, as he naturally con- 
cluded, of the apartment of the Countesses of Croye. 
Quentin bit his lips with indignation, and blamed 
himself severely that he had not made the ladies 
sensible of the full infamy of Hayraddin’s character, 
and acquainted with his machinations against their 
safety. The arrogating manner in which the Bohe- 
mian had promised to back his suit, added to his 
anger and his disgust ; and he felt as if even the hand 
of the Countess Isabelle would be profaned, were it 
possible to attain it by such patronage. “ But it 
is all a deception,” he said — “a turn of his base 
juggling artifice. He has procured access to these 
ladies upon some false pretence, and with some mis- 
chievous intention. It is well I have learned where 
they lodge. I will watch Marthon, and solicit an 
interview with them, were it but to place them on 
their guard. It is hard that I must use artifice and 
brook delay, when such as he*have admittance openly 
and without scruple. They shall find, however, that 
though I am excluded from their presence, Isabelle’s 
safety is still the chief subject of my vigilance.” 

While the young lover was thus meditating, an 
aged gentleman of the Bishop’s household ap- 
proached him from the same door by which he had 
himself entered the garden, and made him aware, 
though with the greatest civility of manner, that the 
garden was private, and reserved only for the use 
of the Bishop, and guests of the very highest 
distinction. 

Quentin heard him repeat this information twice 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


23 


ere he put the proper construction upon it ; and 
then starting as from a reverie, he bowed and hur- 
ried out of the garden, the official person following 
him all the way, and overwhelming him with formal 
apologies for the necessary discharge of his duty. 
Nay, so pertinacious was he in his attempts to re- 
move the offence which he conceived Durward to 
have taken, that he offered to bestow his own com- 
pany upon him, to contribute to his entertainment ; 
until Quentin, internally cursing his formal foppery, 
found no better way of escape, than pretending a 
desire of visiting the neighbouring city, and setting 
off thither at such a round pace as speedily subdued 
all desire in the gentleman-usher to accompany him 
farther than the drawbridge. In a few minutes, 
Quentin was within the walls of the city of Liege, 
then one of the richest in Flanders, and of course 
in the world. 

Melancholy, even love-melancholy, is not so 
deeply seated, at least in minds of a manly and 
elastic character, as the soft enthusiasts who suffer 
under it are fond of believing. It yields to unex- 
pected and striking impressions upon the senses, to 
change of place, to such scenes as create new trains 
of association, and to the influence of the busy hum 
of mankind. In a few minutes, Quentin’s attention 
was as much engrossed by the variety of objects 
presented in rapid succession by the busy streets 
of Liege, as if there had neither been a Countess 
Isabelle, nor a Bohemian, in the world. 

The lofty houses, — the stately, though narrow 
and gloomy streets, — the splendid display of the 
richest goods and most gorgeous armour in the 
warehouses and shops around, — the walks crowded 
by busy citizens of every description, passing and 


24 QUENTIN DU R WARD. 

repassing with faces of careful importance or eager 
bustle, — the huge wains, which transported to and 
fro the subjects of export and import, the former 
consisting of broad cloths and serge, arms of all 
kinds, nails and iron work, while the latter com- 
prehended every article of use or luxury, intended 
either for the consumption of an opulent city, or 
received in barter, and destined to be transported 
elsewhere, — all these objects combined to form an 
engrossing picture of wealth, bustle, and splendour, 
to which Quentin had been hitherto a stranger. He 
admired also the various streams and canals, drawn 
from and communicating with the Maes, which, 
traversing the city in various directions, offered to 
every quarter the commercial facilities of water- 
carriage, and he failed not to hear a mass in the 
venerable old Church of Saint Lambert, said to 
have been founded in the eighth century. 

It was upon leaving this place of worship that 
Quentin began to observe, that he, who had been 
hitherto gazing on all around him with the eager- 
ness of unrestrained curiosity, was himself the object 
of attention to several groups of substantial looking 
burghers, who seemed, assembled to look upon him 
as he left the church, and amongst whom arose a 
buzz and whisper, which spread from one party to 
another; while the number of gazers continued to 
augment rapidly, and the eyes of each who added' 
to it were eagerly directed to Quentin, with a 
stare which expressed much interest and curiosity, 
mingled with a certain degree of respect. 

At length he now formed the centre of a con- 
siderable crowd, which yet yielded before him while 
he continued to move forward; while those who 
followed or kept pace with him, studiously avoided 


QUENTIN DURWARD 


25 


pressing on him, or impeding his motions. Yet his 
situation was too embarrassing to be long endured, 
without making some attempt to extricate himself, 
and to obtain some explanation. 

Quentin looked around him, and fixing upon a 
jolly, stout-made, respectable man, whom, by his 
velvet cloak and gold chain, he concluded to be a 
burgher of eminence, and perhaps a magistrate, he 
asked him, “ Whether he saw any thing particular 
in his appearance, to attract public attention in a 
degree so unusual ? or whether it was the ordinary 
custom of the people of Liege thus to throng around 
strangers who chanced to visit their city ? ” 

“ Surely not, good seignior,” answered the 
burgher ; “ the Liegeois are neither so idly curious 
as to practise such a custom, nor is there any thing 
in your dress or appearance, saving that which is 
most welcome to this city, and which our townsmen 
are both delighted to see, and desirous to honour.” 

“ This sounds very polite, worthy sir,” said 
Quentin ; “ but by the Cross of Saint Andrew, I 
cannot even guess at your meaning.” 

“Your oath, sir,” answered the merchant of 
Lieg6, “ as well as your accent, convinces me that 
we are right in our conjecture.” 

“ By my patron Saint Quentin 1 ” said Durward, 
“ I am farther off from your meaning than ever.” 

“ There again now,” rejoined the Liegeois, look- 
ing, as he spoke, most provokingly, yet most civilly, 
politic and intelligent. — “ It is surely not for us 
to see that which you, worthy seignior, deem it 
proper to conceal. But why swear by Saint Quentin, 
if you would not have me construe your meaning ? 
— We know the good Count of Saint Paul, who 
lies there at present, wishes well to our cause.” 


26 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“On my life” said Quentin, “you are under 
some delusion — I know nothing of Saint Paul.” 

“ Nay, we question you not,” said the burgher ; 
* although, hark ye — I say, hark in your ear — my 
name is Pavilion.” 

“And what is my business with that, Seignior 
Pavilion ? ” said Quentin. 

“ Nay, nothing — only metliinks it might satisfy 
you that I am trustworthy — Here is my colleague 
Rouslaer, too.” 

Rouslaer advanced, a corpulent dignitary, whose 
fair round belly, like a battering-ram, “did shake 
the press before him,” and who, whispering caution 
to his neighbour, said, in a tone of rebuke — You 
forget, good colleague, the place is too open — the 
seignior will retire to your house or mine, and drink 
a glass of Rhenish and sugar, and then we shall 
hear more of our good friend and ally, whom we 
love with all our honest Flemish hearts.” 

“ I have no news for any of you,” said Quentin, 
impatiently ; “ I will drink no Rhenish ; and I only 
desire of you, as men of account and respectability, 
to disperse this idle crowd, and allow a stranger to 
leave your town as quietly as he came into it.” 

“Nay, then, sir,” said Rouslaer, “since you stand 
so much on your incognito, and with us, too, who 
are men of confidence, let me ask you roundly, 
wherefore wear you the badge of your company if 
you would remain unknown in Liege ? ” 

“ What badge, and what order ? ” said Quentin ; 
“ you look like reverend men and grave citizens, 
yet, on my soul, you are either mad yourselves, or 
desire to drive me so.” 

“ Sapperment I ” said the other burgher, ** this 
youth would make Saint Lambert swear ' Why, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


27 


who wear bonnets with the Saint Andrew’s cross 
and fleur-de-lys , save the Scottish Archers of King 
Louis’s Guards ? ” 

“ And supposing I am an Archer of the Scottish 
Guard, why should you make a wonder of my 
wearing the badge of my company ? ” said Quentin, 
impatiently. 

“ He has avowed it, he has avowed it ! ” said 
Rouslaer and Pavilion, turning to the assembled 
burghers in attitudes of congratulation, with wav- 
ing arms, extended palms, and large round faces 
radiating with glee. “ He hath avowed himself an 
Archer of Louis’s Guard — of Louis, the guardian 
of the liberties of Liege ! ” 

A general shout and cry now arose from the mul- 
titude, in which were mingled the various sounds of 
“Long live Louis of France! Long live the Scot- 
tish Guard ! Long live the valiant Archer ! Our 
liberties, our privileges, or death ! No imposts ! 
Long live the valiant Boar of Ardennes ! Down 
with Charles of Burgundy ! and confusion to Bour- 
bon and his bishopric ! ” 

Half-stunned by the noise, which began anew in 
one quarter so soon as it ceased in another, rising 
and falling like the billows of the sea, and aug- 
mented by thousands of voices which roared in 
chorus from distant streets and market-places, 
Quentin had yet time to form a conjecture con- 
cerning the meaning of the tumult, and a plan for 
regulating his own conduct. 

He had forgotten that, after his skirmish with 
Orleans and Dunois, one of his comrades had, at 
Lord Crawford’s command, replaced the morion, 
cloven by the sword of the latter, with one of the 
steel-lined bonnets, which formed a part of the 


28 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


proper and well-known equipment of the Scotch 
Guards. That an individual of this body, which 
was always kept very close to Louis’s person, should 
have appeared in the streets of a city, whose civil 
discontents had been aggravated by the agents of 
that King, was naturally enough interpreted by the 
burghers of Liege into a determination on the part 
of Louis openly to assist their cause ; and the appa- 
rition of an individual archer was magnified into a 
pledge of immediate and active support from Louis 
— nay, into an assurance that his auxiliary forces 
were actually entering the town at one or other, 
though no one could distinctly tell which, of the 
city-gates. 

To remove a conviction so generally adopted, 
Quentin easily saw was impossible — nay, that any 
attempt to undeceive men so obstinately prepos- 
sessed in their belief, would be attended with per- 
sonal risk, which, in this case, he saw little use of 
incurring. He therefore hastily resolved to tem- 
porize, and to get free the best way he could ; and 
this resolution he formed while they were in the 
act of conducting him to the Stadthouse, where the 
notables of the town were fast assembling, in order 
to hear the tidings which he was presumed to have 
brought, and to regale him with a splendid banquet. 

In spite of all his opposition, which was set down 
to modesty, he was on every side surrounded by the 
donors of popularity, the unsavoury tide of which 
now floated around him. His two burgomaster 
friends, who were Schoppen, or Syndics of the city, 
had made fast both his arms. Before him, Nikkei 
Blok, the chief of the butcher’s incorporation, has- 
tily summoned from his office in the shambles, bran- 
dished his death-doing axe, yet smeared with blood 


QUENTIN DUKWAliD. 


29 


and brains, with a courage and grace which brant - 
wein alone could inspire. Behind him came the 
tall, lean, raw-boned, very drunk, and- very patri- 
otic figure of Claus Hammerlein, president of the 
mystery of the workers in iron, and followed by at 
least a thousand unwashed artificers of his class. 
Weavers, nailers, ropemakers, artisans of every de- 
gree and calling, thronged forward to join the 
procession from every gloomy and narrow street. 
Escape seemed a desperate and impossible adventure. 

In this dilemma, Quentin appealed to Rouslaer, 
who held one arm, and to Pavilion, who had secured 
the other, and who were conducting him forward 
at the head of the ovation, of which he had so unex- 
pectedly become the principal object. He hastily 
acquainted them “ with his having thoughtlessly 
adopted the bonnet of the Scottish Guard, on an 
accident having occurred to the head-piece in which 
he had proposed to travel ; he regretted that, owing 
to this circumstance, and the sharp wit with which 
the Liegeois drew the natural inference of his qual- 
ity and the purpose of his visit, these things had 
been publicly discovered ; and he intimated, that, 
if just now conducted to the Stadthouse, he might 
unhappily feel himself under the necessity of com- 
municating to the assembled notables certain mat- 
ters, which he was directed by the King to reserve 
for the private ears of his excellent gossips, Mein- 
heers Rouslaer and Pavilion of Liege.” 

This last hint operated like magic on the two 
citizens, who were the most distinguished leaders of 
the insurgent burghers, and were, like all dema- 
gogues of their kind, desirous to keep every thing 
within their own management, so far as possible. 
They therefore hastily agreed that Quentin should 


3o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


leave the town for the time, and return by night to 
Liege, and converse with them privately in the 
house of Rouslaer, near the gate opposite to Schcn- 
waldt. Quentin hesitated not to tell them, that he 
was at present residing in the bishop’s palace, un- 
der pretence of bearing dispatches from the French 
Court, although his real errand was, as they had 
well conjectured, designed to the citizens of Liege ; 
and this tortuous mode of conducting a communi- 
cation, as well as the character and rank of the per- 
son to whom it was supposed to be intrusted, Was 
so consonant to the character of Louis, as neither to 
excite doubt nor surprise. 

Almost immediately after this eclaircissement was 
completed, the progress of the multitude brought 
them opposite to the door of Pavilion’s house, in 
one of the principal streets, but which communi- 
cated from behind with the Maes, by means of a 
garden, as well as an extensive manufactory of tan- 
pits and other conveniences for dressing hides ; for 
the patriotic burgher was a felt-dresser, or currier. 

It was natural that Pavilion should desire to do 
the honours of his dwelling to the supposed envoy 
of Louis, and a halt before his house excited no 
surprise on the part of the multitude ; who, on the 
contrary, greeted Meinheer Pavilion with a loud 
vivat, as he ushered in his distinguished guest. 
Quentin speedily laid aside his remarkable bonnet, 
for the cap of a felt- maker, and flung a cloak over 
his other apparel. Pavilion then furnished him 
with a passport to pass the gates of the city, and to 
return by night or day as should suit his conve- 
nience ; and, lastly, committed him to the charge of 
his daughter, a fair and smiling Flemish lass, with 
instructions how he was to be disposed of, while he 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3 1 


himself hastened back to his colleague, to amuse 
their friends at the Stadthouse, with the best ex- 
cuses which they could invent for the disappearance 
of King Louis’s envoy. We cannot, as the footman 
says in the play, recollect the exact nature of the 
lie which the belwethers told the flock ; but rfo task 
is so easy as that of imposing upon a multitude 
whose eager prejudices have more than half done 
the business, ere the impostor has spoken a word. 

The worthy burgess was no sooner gone, than his 
plump daughter, Trudchen, with many a blush, and 
many a wreathed smile, which suited very prettily 
with lips like cherries, laughing blue eyes, and a 
skin transparently pure, escorted the handsome 
stranger through the pleached alleys of the Sieur 
Pavilion’s garden, down to the water-side, and there 
saw him fairly embarked in a boaf, which two stout 
Flemings, in their trunk-hose, fur caps, and many- 
buttoned jerkins, had got in readiness with as much 
haste as their low-country ijature would permit. 

As the pretty Trudchen spoke nothing but Ger- 
man, Quentin, — no disparagement to his loyal 
affection to the Countess of Croye, — could only 
express his thanks by a kiss on those same cherry 
lips, which was very gallantly bestowed, and ac- 
cepted with all modest gratitude ; for gallants with 
a form and face like our Scottish Archer, were not 
of every-day occurrence among the bourgeoisie of 
Liege . 1 

1 The adventure of Quentin at Liege may be thought over- 
strained. yet it is extraordinary what slight circumstances will 
influence the public mind in a moment of doubt and uncertainty. 
Most readers must remember, that, when the Dutch were on the 
point of rising against the French yoke, their zeal for liberation 
received a strong impulse from the landing of a person in a Brit 
ish volunteer-uniform, whose presence, though that of a private 
individual, was received as a guarantee of succours from England 


3 2 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


While the boat was rowed up the sluggish wa- 
ters of the Maes, and passed the defences of the 
town, Quentin had time enough to reflect what 
account he ought to give of his adventure in 
Liege, when he returned to the Bishop’s palace 
of Schonwaldt ; and disdaining alike to betray 
any person who had reposed confidence in him, 
although by misapprehension, or to conceal from 
the hospitable Prelate the mutinous state of his 
capital, he resolved to confine himself to so gen- 
eral an account as might put the Bishop upon his 
guard, while it should point out no individual to 
his vengeance. 

He was landed from the boat, within half a mile 
of the castle, and rewarded his rowers with a guil- 
der, to their great satisfaction. Yet, short as was 
the space which divided him from Schonwaldt, the 
castle-bell had tolled for dinner,- and Quentin found, 
moreover, that he had approached the castle on a 
different side from that of the principal entrance, 
and that to go round would throw his arrival consi- 
derably later. He, therefore, made straight towards 
the side that was nearest him, as he discerned that 
it presented an embattled wall, probably that of 
the little garden already noticed, with a postern 
opening upon the moat, and a skiff moored by the 
postern, which might serve, he thought, upon sum- 
mons, to pass him over. As he approached, in 
hopes to make his entrance this way, the postern 
opened, a man came out, and, jumping into the 
boat, made his way to the farther side of the moat, 
and then with a long pole, pushed the skiff back 
towards the place where he had embarked. As he 
came near, Quentin discerned that this person was 
the Bohemian, who, avoiding him, as was not diffi- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


33 


cult, held a different path towards Liege, and was 
presently out of his ken. 

Here was new subject for meditation. Had this 
vagabond heathen been all this while with the 
Ladies of Croye, and for what purpose should they 
so far have graced him with their presence ? Tor- 
mented with this thought, Durward became doubly 
determined to seek an explanation with them, for 
the purpose at once of laying bare the treachery of 
Hayraddin, and announcing to them the perilous 
state in which their protector, the Bishop, was 
placed, by the mutinous state of his town of Liege. 

As Quentin thus resolved, he entered the castle 
by the principal gate, and found that part of the 
family who assembled for dinner in the great hall, 
including the Bishop’s attendant clergy, officers of 
the household, and strangers below the rank of 
the very first nobility, were already placed at their 
meal. A seat at the upper end of the board, had, 
however, been reserved beside the Bishop’s do- 
mestic chaplain, who welcomed the stranger with 
the old college jest of, Sero venie-ntibus ossa , while 
he took care so to load his plate with dainties, as 
to take away all appearance of that tendency to 
reality, which, in Quentin’s country, is said to 
render a joke either no joke, or at best an un- 
palatable one . 1 

In vindicating himself from the suspicion of 
ill-breeding, Quentin briefly described the tumult 
which had been occasioned in the city by his being 
discovered to belong to the Scottish Archer-guard 
of Louis, and endeavoured to give a ludicrous turn 
to the narrative by saying, that he had been with 


1 “ A sooth boord [true joke] is no boord,” says the Scot. 


34 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

difficulty extricated by a fat burgher of Liege and 
his pretty daughter. 

But the company were too much interested in 
the story to taste the jest. All operations of the 
table were suspended while Quentin told his tale ; 
and when he had ceased, there was a solemn pause, 
which was only broken by the Major-Domo saying, 
in a low and melancholy tone, “I would to God 
that we saw those hundred lances of Burgundy ! ” 

“ Why should you think so deeply on it ? ” said 
Quentin — “ You have many soldiers here, whose 
trade is arms ; and your antagonists are only the 
rabble of a disorderly city, who will fly before the 
first flutter of a banner with men-at-arms arrayed 
beneath it.” 

“ You do not know the men of Liege,” said the 
Chaplain, “ of whom it may be *said, that, not even 
excepting those of Ghent, they are at once the 
fiercest and the most untamable in Europe. Twice 
has the Duke of Burgundy chastised them for their 
repeated revolts against their Bishop, and twice 
hath he suppressed them with much severity, 
abridged their privileges, taken away their banners, 
and established rights and claims to himself, which 
were not before competent over a free city of the 
Empire — Nay, the last time he defeated them 
with much slaughter near Saint Tron, where Liege 
lost nearly six thousand men, what with the sword, 
what with those drowned in the flight ; and, there- 
after, to disable them from farther mutiny, Duke 
Charles refused to enter at any of the gates which 
they had surrendered, but, beating to the ground 
forty cubits breadth of their city wall, marched 
into Liege as a conqueror, with visor closed, and 
lance in rest, at the head of his chivalry, by the 


* 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


35 


breach which he had made. Nay, well were the 
Liegeois then assured, that, but for the intercession 
of his father, Duke Philip the Good, this Charles, 
then called Count of Charalois, would have given 
their town up to spoil. And yet, with all these 
fresh recollections, with their breaches unrepaired, 
and their arsenals scarcely supplied, the sight of 
an Archer’s bonnet is sufficient again to stir them 
to uproar. May God amend all ! but I fear there 
will be bloody work between so fierce a population 
and so fiery a Sovereign ; and I would my excellent 
and kind master had a see of lesser dignity and 
more safety, for his mitre is lined with thorns 
instead of ermine. This much I say to you, Seignior 
stranger, to make you aware, that, if your affairs 
detain you not at Schonwaldt, it is a place from 
which each man of sense should depart as speedily 
as possible. I apprehend that your ladies are of 
the same opinion ; for one of the grooms who 
attended them on the route, has been sent back by 
them to the Court of France with letters, which, 
doubtless, are intended to announce their going in 
search of a safer asylum.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE BILLET. 

Goto — thou art made, if thou desirest to be so — If not, let 
me see thee still the fellow of servants, and not fit to touch For- 
tune’s fingers. 

Twelfth Night. 


When the tables were drawn, the Chaplain, who 
seemed to have taken a sort of attachment to 
Quentin Durward’s society, or who perhaps desired 
to extract from him farther information concern- 
ing the meeting of the morning, led him into a 
withdrawing apartment, the windows of which, on 
one side, projected into the garden ; and as he saw 
his companion’s eye gaze rather eagerly upon the 
spot, he proposed to Quentin to go down and take 
a view of the curious foreign shrubs with which 
the Bishop had enriched its parterres. 

Quentin excused himself, as unwilling to intrude, 
and therewithal communicated the check which he 
had received in the morning. The Chaplain smiled, 
and said, “ That there was indeed some ancient pro- 
hibition respecting the Bishop’s private garden; 
but this,” he added, with a smile, “ was when our 
reverend father was a princely young prelate of not 
more than thirty years of age, and when many fair 
ladies frequented the Castle for ghostly consolation. 
Need there was,” he said, with a downcast look, and 
a smile, half simple and half intelligent, “ that 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


37 


these ladies, pained in conscience, who were ever 
lodged in the apartments now occupied by the noble 
Canoness, should have some space for taking the 
air, secure from the intrusion of the profane. But 
of late years,” he added, “ this prohibition, although 
not formally removed, has fallen entirely out of 
observance, and remains but as the superstition 
which lingers in the brain of a superannuated gen- 
tleman-usher. If you please,” he added, “ we will 
presently descend, and try whether the place be 
haunted or no.” 

Nothing could have been more agreeable to Quen- 
tin than the prospect of a free entrance into the 
garden, through means of which, according to a 
chance which had hitherto attended his passion, he 
hoped to communicate with, or at least obtain sight 
of, the object of his affections, from some such turret 
or balcony-window, or similar “ coign of vantage,” 
as at the hostelry of the Fleur-de-Lys, near Plessis, 
or the Dauphin’s Tower, within that Castle itself. 
Isabelle seemed still destined, wherever she made 
her abode, to be the Lady of the Turret. 

When Durward descended with his new friend 
into the garden, the latter seemed a terrestrial phi- 
losopher, entirely busied with the things of the 
earth while the eyes of Quentin, if they did not 
seek the heavens, like those of an astrologer, ranged 
at least all around the windows, balconies, and espe- 
cially the turrets, which projected on every part 
from the inner front of the old building, in order to 
discover that which was to be his cynosure. 

While thus employed, the young lover heard with 
total neglect, if indeed he heard at all, the enume- 
ration of plants, herbs, and shrubs, which his reve- 
rend conductor pointed out to him , of which this 


38 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


was choice, because of prime use in medicine ; and 
that more choice for yielding a rare flavour to pot- 
tage ; and a third, choicest of all, because possessed 
of no merit but its extreme scarcity. Still it was 
necessary to preserve some semblance at least of 
attention ; which the youth found so difficult, that 
he fairly wished at the devil the officious naturalist 
and the whole vegetable kingdom. He was relieved 
at length by the striking of a clock, which sum- 
moned the Chaplain to some official duty. 

The reverend man made many unnecessary apo- 
logies for leaving his new friend, and concluded by 
giving him the agreeable assurance, that he might 
walk in the, garden till supper, without much risk 
of being disturbed. 

“ It is,” said he, “ the place yvhere I always study 
my own homilies, as being most sequestered from 
the resort of strangers. I am now about to deliver 
one of them in the chapel, if you please to favour 
me with your audience. — I have been thought to 
have some gift — But the glory be where it is due ! ” 

Quentin excused himself for this evening, under 
pretence of a severe headache, which the open air 
was likely to prove the best cure for ; and at length 
the well-meaning priest left him to himself. 

It may be well imagined, that iii the curious 
inspection which he now made, at more leisure, of 
every window or aperture which looked into the 
garden, those did not escape which were in the 
immediate neighbourhood of the small door by which 
he had seen Marthon admit Hayraddin, as he 
pretended, to the apartment of the Countesses. But 
nothing stirred or showed itself, which could either 
confute or confirm the tale which the Bohemian had 
told, until it was becoming dusky ; and Quentin 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


39 


began to be sensible, he scarce knew why, that his 
sauntering so long in the garden might be subject 
of displeasure or suspicion. 

Just as he had resolved to depart, and was taking 
what he had destined for his last turn under the 
windows which had such attraction for him, he heard 
above him a slight and cautious sound, like that of 
a cough, as intended to call his attention, and to 
avoid the observation of others. As he looked up in 
joyful surprise, a casement opened — a female hand 
was seen to drop a billet, which fell into a rosemary 
bush that grew at the foot of the wall. The pre- 
caution used in dropping this letter, prescribed equal 
prudence and secrecy in reading it. The garden, 
surrounded, as we have said, upon two sides, by the 
buildings of the palace, was commanded, of course, 
by the windows of many apartments ; but there was 
a sort of grotto of rock-work, which the Chaplain 
had shown # Durward with much complacency. To 
snatch up the billet, thrust it into his bosom, and hie 
to this place of secrecy, was the work of a single 
minute. He there opened the precious scroll, and 
blessed, at the same time, the memory of the Monks 
of Aberbrothick, whose nurture had rendered him 
capable of deciphering its contents. 

The first line contained the injunction, " Read 
this in secret,” and the contents were as follows: 

u What your eyes have too boldly said, mine have 
perhaps too rashty understood. But, unjust persecu- 
tion makes its victims bold, and it were better to throw 
myself on the gratitude of one, than to remain the 
object of pursuit to many. Fortune has her throne 
upon a rock ; but brave men fear not to climb. If you 
dare do aught for one that hazards much, you need but 
pass into this garden at prime to-morrow, wearing in 


40 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


your cap a blue-and-white feather ; hut expect no farther 
communication. Your stars have, they say, destined 
you for greatness, and disposed you to gratitude. — 
Farewell — he faithful, prompt, and resolute, and doubt 
not thy fortune.” 

Within this letter was enclosed a ring with a table 
diamond, on which were cut, in form of a lozenge, 
the ancient arms of the House of Croye. 

The first feeling of Quentin upon this occasion 
was un mingled ecstasy — a pride and joy which 
seemed to raise him to the stars, — a determination 
to do or die, influenced by which he treated with 
scorn the thousand obstacles that placed themselves 
betwixt him and the goal of his wishes. 

In this mood of rapture, and unable to endure 
any interruption which might withdraw his mind, 
were it but for a moment, from so ecstatic a subject 
of contemplation, Durward, retiring to the interior 
of the castle, hastily assigned his former pretext of 
a headache for not joining the household of the 
Bishop at the supper-meal, and, lighting his lamp, 
betook himself to the chamber which had been 
assigned him, to read, and to read again and again, 
the precious billet, and to kiss a thousand times the 
no less precious ring. 

But such high-wrought feelings could not remain 
long in the same ecstatic tone. A thought pressed 
upon him, though he repelled it as ungrateful — as 
even blasphemous — that the frankness of the con- 
fession implied less delicacy, on the part of her who 
made it, than was consistent with the high romantic 
feeling of adoration with which he had hitherto 
worshipped the Lady Isabelle. No sooner did this 
ungracious thought intrude itself, than he hastened 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


4i 


to stifle it, as he would have stifled a hissing and 
hateful adder, that had intruded itself into his 
' couch. Was it for him — him the Favoured — on 
whose account she had stooped from her sphere, to 
ascribe blame to her for the very act of condescen- 
sion, without which he dared not have raised his 
eyes towards her? Did not her very dignity of 
birth and of condition, reverse, in her case, the 
usual rules which impose silence on the lady until 
her lover shall have first spoken ? To these argu- 
ments, which he boldly formed into syllogisms, and 
avowed to himself, his vanity might possibly suggest 
one which he cared not to embody even mentally 
with the same frankness — that the merit of the 
party beloved might perhaps warrant, on the part 
of the lady, some little departure from common 
rules ; and, after all, as in the case of Malvolio, 
there was example for it in chronicle. The Squire 
of low degree, of whom he had just been reading, 
was, like himself, a gentleman void of land and 
living, and yet the generous Princess of Hungary 
bestowed on him, without scruple, more substantial 
marks of her affection, than the billet he had just 
received : 

“Welcome,” she said, “my swete Squyre, 

My heartis roote, my soule’s desire ; 

I will give thee kisses three, 

And als five hundrid poundis in fee.” 

And again the same faithful history made the 
King of Hongrie himself avouch, 

“ I have y known many a page 
Come to be Prince by marriage.” 

So that, upon the whole, Quentin generously and 
magnanimously reconciled himself to a line of con- 


42 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

duct on the Countess’s part, by which he was likely 
to be so highly benefited. 

But this scruple was succeeded by another doubt, 
harder of digestion. The traitor Hayraddin had 
been in the .apartments of the ladies, for aught 
Quentin knew, for the space' of four hours, and, 
considering the hints which he had thrown out, of 
possessing an influence of the most interesting kind 
over the fortunes of Quentin Durward, what should 
assure him that this train was not of his laying ? 
and if so, was it not probable that such a dissem- 
bling villain had set it on foot to conceal some new 
plan of treachery — perhaps to seduce Isabelle out 
of the protection of the worthy Bishop ? This was 
a matter to be closely looked into, for Quentin felt 
a repugnance to this individual proportioned to the 
unabashed impudence with which he had avowed 
his profligacy, and could not bring himself to hope, 
that any thing in which he was concerned could ever 
come to an honourable or happy conclusion. 

These various thoughts rolled over Quentin’s 
mind like misty clouds, to dash and obscure the fair 
landscape which his fancy had at first drawn, and 
his couch was that night a sleepless one. At the 
hour of prime — ay, and an hour before it, was he 
in the castle-garden, where no one now opposed 
either his entrance or his abode, with a feather of 
the assigned colour, as distinguished as he could by 
any means procure in such haste. No notice was 
taken of his appearance for nearly two hours ; at 
length he heard a few notes of the lute, and pre- 
sently the lattice opened right above the little 
postern-door at which Marthon had admitted Hay- 
raddin, and Isabelle, in maidenly beauty, appeared 
at the opening, greeted him half-kindly half-shyly, 


QUENTIN DUllWARD. 


43 


coloured extremely at the deep and significant reve- 
rence with which he returned her courtesy — shut 
the casement, and disappeared. 

Daylight and champaign could discover no more ! 
The authenticity of the billet was ascertained — it 
only remained what was to follow ; and of this the 
fair writer had given him no hint. But no imme- 
diate danger impended — The Countess was in a 
strong castle, under the protection of a Prince, at 
once respectable for his secular, and venerable for 
his ecclesiastical authority. There was neither 
immediate room nor occasion for the exulting 
Squire interfering in the adventure ; and it was 
sufficient if he kept himself prompt to execute her 
commands whenever they should be communicated 
to him. But Fate purposed to call him into action 
sooner than he was aware of.* 

It was the fourth night after his arrival at Schon- 
waldt, when Quentin had taken measures for send- 
ing back on the morrow, to the Court of Louis, the 
remaining groom who had accompanied him on his 
journey, with letters from himself to his uncle and 
Lord Crawford, renouncing the service of France, 
for which the treachery to which he had been 
exposed by the private instructions of Hayraddin 
gave him an excuse, both in honour and prudence ; 
and he betook himself to his bed with all the rosy- 
coloured ideas around him which flutter about the 
couch of a youth when he loves dearly, and thinks 
his love as sincerely repaid. 

But Quentin’s dreams, which at first partook of 
the nature of those happy influences under which 
he had fallen asleep, began by degrees to assume 
a more terrific character. 

He walked with the Countess Isabelle beside a 


44 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


smooth and inland lake, such as formed the prin- 
cipal characteristic of his native glen ; and he spoke 
to her of his love, without any consciousness of the 
impediments which lay between them. She blushed 
and smiled when she listened — even as he might 
have expected from the tenor of the letter, which, 
sleeping or waking, lay nearest to his heart. But 
the scene suddenly changed from summer to winter 
— from calm to tempest ; the winds and the waves 
rose with such a contest of surge and whirlwind, as 
if the demons of the water and of the air had been 
contending for their roaring empires in rival strife. 
The rising waters seemed to cut off their advance 
and their retreat — the increasing tempest, which 
dashed them against each other, seemed to render 
their remaining on the spot impossible ; and the 
tumultuous sensations produced by the apparent 
danger awoke the dreamer. 

He awoke ; but although the circumstances of the 
vision had disappeared, and given place to reality, 
the noise, which had probably suggested them, still 
continued to sound in his ears. 

Quentin’s first impulse was to sit erect in bed, and 
listen with astonishment to sounds, which, if they 
had announced a tempest, might have shamed the 
wildest that ever burst down from the Grampians ; 
and again in a minute he became sensible, that the 
tumult was not excited by the fury of the elements, 
but by the wrath of men. 

He sprung from bed, and looked from the win- 
dow of his apartment ; but it opened into the garden, 
and on that side all was quiet, though the opening 
of the casement made him still more sensible, from 
the shouts which reached his ears, that the outside 
of the castle was beleaguered and assaulted, and that 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


45 


by a numerous and determined enemy. Hastily 
collecting his dress and arms, and putting them on 
with such celerity as darkness and surprise permitted, 
his attention was solicited by a knocking at the 
door of his chamber. As Quentin did not immedi- 
ately answer, the door, which was a slight one, was 
forced open from without, and the intruder, an- 
nounced by his peculiar dialect to be the Bohemian, 
Hayraddin Maugrabin, entered the apartment. A 
phial, which he held in his hand, touched by a match, 
produced a dark flash of ruddy fire, by means of which 
he kindled a lamp, which he took from his bosom. 

“ The horoscope of your destinies,” he said 
energetically to Durward, without any farther 
greeting, “now turns upon the determination of 
a minute.” 

“ Caitiff ! ” said Quentin, in reply, “ there is 
treachery around us ; and where there is treachery, 
thou must have a share in it.” 

“ You are mad,” answered Maugrabin — “I never 
betrayed any one but to gain by it — and where- 
fore should I betray you, by whose safety I can 
take more advantage than by your destruction ? 
Hearken for a moment, if it be possible for you, to 
one note of reason, ere it is sounded into your ear 
by the death-shot of ruin. The Liegeois are up — 
William de la Marck with his band leads them — 
Were there means of resistance, their numbers, and 
his fury, would overcome them ; but there are next 
to none. If you would save the Countess and your 
own hopes, follow me, in the name of her who sent 
you a table-diamond, with three leopards engraved 
on it ! ” 

“ Lead the way,” said Quentin, hastily — “ In that 
name I dare every danger ! ” 


46 


QUENTIN D UR WARD. 


“As I shall manage it,” said the Bohemian, 
“ there is no danger, if you can but withhold your 
hand from strife which does not concern you ; for, 
after all, what is it to you whether the Bishop, as 
they call him, slaughters his flock, or the flock 
slaughters the shepherd ? — Ha! ha! ha! Follow 
me, but with caution and patience ; subdue your 
own courage, and confide in my prudence — and 
my debt of thankfulness is paid, and you have a 
Countess for your spouse. — Follow me.” 

“ I follow,” said Quentin, drawing his sword; 
“ but the moment in which I detect the least sign 
of treachery, thy head and body are three yards 
separate ! ” 

Without more conversation, the Bohemian, see- 
ing that Quentin was now fully armed and ready, 
rein down the stairs before him, and winded hastily 
through various side-passages, until they gained 
the little garden. Scarce a light was to be seen 
on that side, scarce any bustle was to be heard ; 
but no sooner had Quentin entered the open space, 
than the noise on the opposite side of the castle 
became ten times more stunningly audible, and he 
could hear the various war-cries of “ Liege ! Liege ! 
Sanglier ! Sanglier ! ” shouted by the assailants, 
while the feebler cry of “ Our Lady for the Prince 
Bishop ! ” was raised in a faint and faltering tone, 
by those of the prelate's soldiers who had hastened, 
though surprised and at disadvantage, to the defence 
of the walls. 

But the interest of the fight, notwithstanding 
the martial character of Quentin Durward, was in- 
different to him in comparison of the fate of Isabelle 
of Croye, which, he had reason to fear, would be 
a dreadful one, unless rescued from the power of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


47 


the dissolute and cruel freebooter, who was now, 
as it seemed, bursting the gates of the castle. He 
reconciled himself to the aid of the Bohemian, as 
men in a desperate illness refuse not the remedy 
prescribed by quacks and mountebanks, and fol- 
lowed across the garden, with the intention of 
being guided by him until he should discover symp- 
toms of treachery, and then piercing him through 
the heart, or striking his head from his body. Hay- 
raddin seemed himself conscious that his safety 
turned on a feather-weight, for he forbore, from 
the moment they entered the open air, all his 
wonted gibes and quirks, and seemed to have made 
a vow to act at once with modesty, courage, and 
activity. 

At the opposite door, which led to the ladies’ 
apartments, upon a low signal made by Hayraddin, 
appeared two women, muffled in the black silk veils 
which were then, as now, worn by the women in 
the Netherlands. Quentin offered his arm to one 
of them, who clung to it with trembling eagerness, 
and indeed hung upon him so much, that had her 
weight been greater, she must have much impeded 
their retreat. The Bohemian, who conducted the 
other female, took the road straight for the postern 
which opened upon the moat, through the garden 
wall, close to which the little skiff was drawn up, 
by means of which Quentin had formerly observed 
Hayraddin himself retreating from the castle. 

As they crossed, the shouts of storm and success- 
ful violence seemed to announce that the castle 
was in the act of being taken ; and so dismal was 
the sound in Quentin’s ears, that he could not help 
swearing aloud, “But that my blood is irretriev- 
ably devoted to the fulfilment of my present duty, 


48 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


I would back to tlie wall, take faithful part with 
the hospitable Bishop, and silence some of those 
knaves whose throats are full of mutiny and 
robbery ! ” 

The lady, whose arm was still folded in his, 
pressed it lightly as he spoke, as if to make him 
understand that there was a nearer claim on his 
chivalry than the defence of Schonwaldt; while 
the Bohemian exclaimed, loud enough to be heard, 
“Now, that I call right Christian frenzy, which 
would turn back to fight, when love and fortune 
both demand that we should fly. — On, on — with 
all the haste you can make — Horses wait us in 
yonder thicket of willows.” 

“There are but two horses,” said Quentin, who 
saw them in the moonlight. 

“All that I could procure without exciting sus- 
picion — and enough, besides,” replied the Bohe- 
mian. “You two must ride for Tongres ere the 
way becomes unsafe — Marthon will abide with the 
women of our horde, with whom she is an old ac- 
quaintance. Know, she is a daughter of our tribe, 
and only dwelt among you to serve our purpose as 
occasion should fall.” 

“ Marthdn ! ” exclaimed the Countess, looking at 
the veiled female with a shriek of surprise; “is 
not this my kinswoman ? ” 

“ Only Marthon,” said Hayraddin — “ Excuse 
me that little piece of deceit. I dared not carry 
off both the Ladies of Croye from the Wild Boar 
of Ardennes.” 

“ Wretch ! ” said Quentin, emphatically — “ but 
it is not — shall not be too late — I will back to res- 
cue the Lady Hameline.” 

“ Hameline,” whispered the lady, in a disturbed 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 49 

voice, “hangs on thy arm, to thank thee for her 
rescue.” 

“ Ha ! what ! — How is this ? ” said Quentin, 
extricating himself from her hold, and with less 
gentleness than he would at any other time have 
used towards a female of any rank — “ Is the Lady 
Isabelle then left behind ! — Farewell — - farewell.” 

As he turned to hasten hack to the castle, Hay- 
raddin laid hold of him — “ Nay, * hear you — hear 
you — you run upon your death! What the foul 
fiend did you wear the colours of the old one for ? 
— I will never trust blue and white silk again. But 
she has almost as large a dower — has jewels and 
gold — hath pretensions, too, upon the earldom.” 

While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sen- 
tences, the Bohemian struggled to detain Quentin, 
who at length laid his hand on his dagger, in order 
to extricate himself. 

“ Nay, if that be the case,” said Hayraddin, 
unloosing his hold, “go — -and the devil, if there be 
one, go along with you ! ” — And, soon as freed 
from his hold, the Scot shot back to the castle with 
the speed of the wind. 

Hayraddin then turned round to the Countess 
Hameline, who had sunk down on the ground, be- 
tween shame, fear, and disappointment. 

“ Here has been a mistake,” he said ; “ up, lady, 
and come with me — I will provide you, ere morn- 
ing comes, a gallanter husband than this smock- 
faced boy ; and if one will not serve, you shall have 
twenty.” 

The Lady Hameline was as violent in her pas- 
sions, as she was vain and weak in her understand- 
ing. Like many other persons, she went tolerably 
well through the ordinary duties of life ; but in a 


5 ° 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


crisis like the present, she was entirely incapable of 
doing aught, save pouring forth unavailing lamen- 
tations, and accusing Hayraddin- of being a thief, a 
base slave, an impostor, a murderer. 

“ Call me Zingaro,” returned he, composedly, 
“and you have said all at once.” 

“ Monster ! you said the stars had decreed our 
union, and caused me to write — 0 wretch that I 
was ! ” exclaimed the unhappy lady. 

“And so they had decreed your union,” said 
Hayraddin, “had both parties been willing- — hut 
think you the blessed constellations can make any 
one wed against his will ? — I was led into error 
with your accursed Christian gallantries, and fop- 
peries of ribbons and favours — and the youth 
prefers veal to beef, I think — that’s all. — Up and 
follow me ; and take notice, I endure neither weep- 
ing nor swooning.” 

“ I will not stir a foot,” said the Countess, 
obstinately. 

“ By the bright welkin, but you shall, though ! ” 
exclaimed Hayraddin. “ I swear to you, by all 
that ever fools believed in, that you have to do with 
one, who would care little to strip you naked, bind 
you to a tree, and leave you to your fortune ! ” 

“ Nay,” said Marthon, interfering, “ by your fav- 
our, she shall not be misused. I wear a knife as 
well as you, and can use it — She is a kind woman, 
though a fool. — And you, madam, rise up and follow 
us — Here has been a mistake ; hut it is something 
to have saved life and limb. There are many in 
yonder castle would give all the wealth in the world 
to stand where we do now.” 

As Marthon spoke, a clamour, in which the 
shouts of victory were mingled with screams of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


5i 


terror and despair, was wafted to them from the 
Castle of Schonwaldt. 

“ Hear that, lady l ” said Hayraddin, “ and be 
thankful you are not adding your treble pipe to 
yonder concert. Believe me, I will care for you 
honestly, and the stars shall keep their words, and 
find you a good husband.” 

Like some wild animal, exhausted and subdued 
by terror and fatigue, the Countess Hameline yielded 
herself up to the conduct of her guides, and 
suffered herself to be passively led whichever way 
they would. Nay, such was the confusion of her 
spirits and the exhaustion of her strength, that the 
worthy couple, who half bore, half led her, carried 
on their discourse in her presence without her even 
understanding it. 

“I ever thought your plan was folly,” said 
Marthon. “Could you have brought the young 
people together, indeed, we might have had a hold 
on their gratitude, and a footing in their castle. 
But what chance of so handsome a youth wedding 
this old fool ? ” 

“ Rizpah,” said Hayraddin, “ you have borne 
the name of a Christian, and dwelt in the tents of 
those besotted people, till thou hast become a par- 
taker in their follies. How could I dream that he 
would have ma'de scruples about a few years, youth 
or age, when the advantages of the match were so 
evident ? And thou knowest, there would have 
been no moving yonder coy wench to be so frank 
as this coming Countess here, who hangs on our 
arms as dead a weight as a wool-pack. I loved the 
lad too, and would have done him a kindness : to 
wed him to this old woman, was to make his for- 
tune : to unite him to Isabelle, were to have brought 


5 2 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


on him De la Marck, Burgundy, France, — every 
one that challenges an interest in disposing of her 
hand. And this silly woman’s wealth being chiefly 
in gold and jewels, we should have had our share. 
But the bow-string has burst, and the arrow failed. 
Away with her — we will bring her to William with 
the Beard. By the time he has gorged himself 
with wassail, as is his wont, he will not know an 
old Countess from a young one. Away, Rizpah 
— bear a gallant heart. The bright Aldeboran 
still influences the destinies of the Children of the 
Desert ! ” 


CHAPTEE IV. 


THE SACK. 

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up. 

And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart. 

In liberty of bloody hand shall range, 

With conscience wide as hell. 

Henry V. 

The surprised and affrighted garrison of the Castle 
of Schonwaldt had, nevertheless, for some time, 
made good the defence of the place against the 
assailants ; but the immense crowds which, issuing 
from the city of Liege, thronged to the assault like 
bees, distracted their attention, and abated their 
courage. 

There, was also disaffection at least, if not treach- 
ery, among the defenders ; for some called out to 
surrender, and others, deserting their posts, tried 
to escape from the castle. Many threw themselves 
from the walls into the moat, and such as escaped 
drowning, flung aside their distinguishing badges, 
and saved themselves by mingling among the motley 
crowd of assailants. Some few, indeed, from attach- 
ment to the Bishop’s person, drew around him, and 
continued to defend the great keep, to which he 
had fled ; and others, doubtful of receiving quarter, 
or from an impulse of desperate courage, held out 
other detached bulwarks and towers of the exten- 
sive building. But the assailants had got possession 


54 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


of the courts and lower parts of the edifice, and 
were busy pursuing the vanquished, and searching 
for spoil, while one individual, as if he sought for 
that death from which all others were flying, en- 
deavoured to force his way into the scene of tumult 
and horror, under apprehensions still more horrible 
to his imagination, than the realities around were to 
his sight and senses. Whoever had seen Quentin 
Durward that fatal night, not knowing the meaning 
of his conduct, had accounted him a raging mad- 
man ; whoever had appreciated his motives, had 
ranked him nothing beneath a hero of romance. 

Approaching Schonwaldt on the same side from 
which he had left it, the youth met several fugitives 
making for the wood, who naturally avoided him as 
an enemy, because he came in an opposite direction 
from that which they had adopted. When he came 
nearer, he could hear, and partly see, men dropping 
from the garden-wall into the castle fosse, and others 
who seemed precipitated from the battlements by 
the assailants. His courage was not staggered, even 
for an instant. There was not time to look for the 
boat, even had it been practicable to use it, and it 
was in vain to approach the postern of the garden, 
which was crowded with fugitives, who ever and 
anon, as they were thrust through it by the pres- 
sure behind, fell into the moat which they had no 
means of crossing. 

Avoiding that point, Quentin threw himself into 
the moat, near what was called the little gate of 
the castle, and where there was a drawbridge, which 
was still elevated. He avoided with difficulty the 
fatal grasp of more than one sinking wretch, and, 
swimming to the drawbridge, caught hold of one 
of the chains which was hanging down, and, by a 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


55 


great exertion of strength and activity, swayed 
himself out of the water, and attained the platform 
from which the bridge was suspended. As with 
hands and knees he struggled to make good his 
footing, a lanzknecht, with his bloody sword in his 
hand, made towards him, and raised his weapon for 
a blow, which must have been fatal. 

“ How now, fellow ! ” said Quentin, in a tone of 
authority — “ Is that the way in which you assist a 
comrade ? — Give me your hand.” 

The soldier in silence, and not without hesita- 
tion, reached him his arm, and helped him upon 
the platform, when without allowing him time for 
reflection, the Scot continued in the same tone of 
command — “ To the western tower, if you would 
be rich — the Priest’s treasury is in the western 
tower.” 

These words were echoed on every hand : “ To 
the western tower — the treasure is in the western 
tower ! ” And the stragglers who were within hear- 
ing of the cry, took, like a herd of raging wolves, 
the direction opposite to that which Quentin, come 
life, come death, was determined to pursue. 

Bearing himself as if he were one, not of the 
conquered, but of the victors, he made a way into 
the garden, and pushed across it, with less inter- 
ruption than he could have expected; for the cry 
of “ To the western tower ! ” had carried off one 
body of the assailants, and another was summoned 
together, by war-cry and trumpet sound, to assist 
in repelling a desperate sally, attempted by the 
defenders of the Keep, who had hoped to cut their 
way out of the castle, bearing the Bishop along with 
them. Quentin, therefore, crossed the garden with 
an eager step and throbbing heart, commending 


56 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


himself to those heavenly powers which had pro- 
tected him through the numberless perils of his life, 
and bold in his determination to succeed, or leave 
his life in this desperate undertaking. Ere he 
reached the garden, three men rushed on him with 
leveled lances, crying, “ Liege, Liege ! ” 

Putting himself in defence, but without striking, 
he replied, “France, France, friend to Liege I ” 

“ Yivat France ! ” cried the burghers of Liege, 
and passed on. The same signal proved a talisman 
to avert the weapons of four or five of La Marck’s 
followers, whom he found straggling in the garden, 
and who set upon him, crying, “ Sanglier ! ” 

In a word, Quentin began to hope, that his char- 
acter as an emissary of King Louis, the private 
instigator of the insurgents of Liege, and the secret 
supporter of William de la Marck, might possibly 
bear him through the horrors of the night. 

On reaching the turret, he shuddered when he 
found the little side-door, through which Marthon 
and the Countess Hameline had shortly before 
joined him, was now blockaded with more than one 
dead body. 

Two of them he dragged hastily aside, and was 
stepping over the third body, in order to enter the 
portal, when the supposed dead man laid hand on 
his cloak, and entreated him to stay and assist him 
to rise. Quentin was about to use rougher methods 
than struggling to rid himself of this untimely ob- 
struction, when the fallen man continued to exclaim, 
“ I am stifled here, in mine own armour ! — I am 
the Syndic Pavilion of Liege ! If you are for us, I 
will enrich you — if you are for the other side, I will 
protect you ; but do not — do not leave me to die 
the death of a smothered pig ! ” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


57 


In the midst of this scene of blood and confu- 
sion, the presence of mind of Quentin suggested to 
him, that this dignitary might have the means of 
protecting their retreat. He raised him on his feet, 
and asked him if he was wounded. 

“ Not wounded — at least I think not ” — answered 
the burgher ; “ but much out of wind.” 

“ Sit down then on this stone, and recover your 
breath,” said Quentin ; “ I will return instantly.” 

“ F or whom are you ? ” said the burgher, still , 
detaining him. 

“For France — for France,” answered Quentin, 
studying to get away. 

“ What ! my lively young Archer ? ” said the 
worthy Syndic. “ Nay, if it has been my fate to 
find a friend in this fearful night, I will not quit 
him, I promise you. Go where you will, I follow ; 
and, could I get some of the tight lads of our guildry 
together, I might be able to help you in turn ; but 
they are all squandered abroad like so many pease. 
— Oh, it is a fearful night ! ” 

During this time, he was dragging himself on 
after Quentin, who, aware of the importance of 
securing the countenance of a person of such in- 
fluence, slackened his pace to assist him, although 
cursing in his heart the encumbrance that retarded 
him. 

At the top of the stair was an anteroom, with 
boxes and trunks, which bore marks of having been 
rifled, as some of the contents lay on the floor. A 
lamp, dying in the chimney, shed a feeble beam 
on a dead or senseless man, who lay across the 
hearth. 

Bounding from Pavilion, like a greyhound from 
his keeper’s leash, and with an effort which almost 


5 » 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


overthrew him, Quentin sprung through a second 
and a third room, the last of which seemed to be 
the bedroom of the Ladies of Croye. No living 
mortal was to be seen in either of them. He called 
upon the Lady Isabelle’s name, at first gently, then 
more loudly, and then with an accent of despair- 
ing emphasis ; but no answer was returned. He 
wrung his hands, tore his hair, and stamped on the 
earth with desperation. At length, a feeble glim- 
mer of light, which shone through a crevice in the 
wainscoting of a dark nook in the bedroom, an- 
nounced some recess or concealment behind the 
arras. Quentin hasted to examine it. He found 
there was indeed a concealed door, but it resisted 
his hurried efforts to open it. Heedless of the per- 
sonal injury he might sustain, he rushed at the door 
with his whole force and weight of his body; and 
such was the impetus of an effort made betwixt hope 
and despair, that it would have burst much stronger 
fastenings. 

He thus forced his way, almost headlong, into a 
small oratory, where a female figure, which had 
been kneeling in agonizing supplication before the 
holy image, now sunk at length on the floor, under 
the new terrors implied in this approaching tumult. 
He hastily raised her from the ground, and, joy of 
joys ! it was she whom he sought to save — the 
Countess Isabelle. He pressed her to his bosom — 
he conjured her to awake — entreated her to he of 
good cheer — for that she was now under the pro- 
tection of one who had heart and hand enough to 
defend her against armies. 

“ Durward ! ” she said, as she at length collected 
herself, “ is it indeed you ? — then there is some 
hope left. I thought all living and mortal friends 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 59 

had left me to my fate — Do not again abandon 
me ! ” 

“ Never — never ! ” said Durward. “ Whatever 
shall happen — whatever danger shall approach, may 
I forfeit the benefits purchased by yonder blessed 
sign, if I be not the sharer of your fate until it is 
again a happy one ! ” 

“Very pathetic and touching, truly,” said a 
rough, broken, asthmatic voice behind — “A love 
affair, I see ; and, from my soul, I pity the tender 
creature, as if she were my own Trudchen.” 

“You must do more than pity us,” said Quentin, 
turning towards the speaker; “you must assist in 
protecting us, Meinheer Pavilion. Be assured this 
lady was put under my especial charge by your ally 
the King of France ; and, if you aid me not to 
shelter her from every species of offence and vio- 
lence, your city will lose the favour of Louis of 
Valois. Above all, she must be guarded from the 
hands of William de la Marck.” 

“ That will be difficult,” said Pavilion, “ for these 
schelms of lanzknechts are very devils at rummag- 
ing out the wenches ; but I’ll do my best — We 
will to the other apartment, and there I will con- 
sider — It is but a narrow stair, and you can keep 
the door with a pike, while I look from the window, 
and get together some of my brisk boys of the 
currier’s guildry of Liege, that are as true as the 
knives they wear in their girdles. — But first undo 
me these clasps — for I have not worn this corslet 
since the battle of Saint Tron ; 1 and I am three 

1 Fought by the insurgents of Liege against the Duke of 
Burgundy, Charles the Bold, when Count of Charalois, in which 
the people of Liege were defeated with great slaughter. 


60' QUENTIN DURWARD. 

stone heavier since that time, if there be truth in 
Dutch beam and scale.” 

The undoing of the iron enclosure gave great 
relief to the honest man, who, in putting it on, had 
more considered his zeal to the cause of Liege, than 
his capacity of bearing arms. It afterwards turned 
out, that being, as it were, borne forward involun- 
tarily, and hoisted over the walls by his company 
as they thronged to the assault, the magistrate had 
been carried here and there, as the tide of attack 
and defence flowed or ebbed, without the power, 
latterly, of even uttering a word ; until, as the sea 
casts a log of driftwood ashore in the first creek, 
he had been ultimately thrown down in the entrance 
to the Ladies of Croye’s apartments, where the 
encumbrance of his own armour, with the superin- 
cumbent weight of two men slain in the entrance, 
and who fell above him, might have fixed him down 
long enough, had he not been relieved by Durward. 

The same warmth of temper which rendered Her- 
mann Pavilion a hotheaded and intemperate zealot 
in politics, had the more desirable consequence of 
making him, in private, a good-tempered, kind- 
hearted man, who, if sometimes a little misled by 
vanity, was always well-meaning and benevolent. 
He told Quentin to have an especial care of the 
poor pretty ynng f ran ; and, after this unnecessary 
exhortation, began to halloo from the window, 
“Liege, Liege, for the gallant skinners’ guild of 
curriers ! ” 

One or two of his immediate followers collected 
at the summons, and at the peculiar whistle with 
which it was accompanied, (each of the crafts 
having such a signal among themselves,) and, more 
joining them, established a guard under the window 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


61 


from which their leader was bawling, and before 
the postern-door. 

Matters seemed now settling into some sort of 
tranquillity. All opposition had ceased, and the 
leaders of the different classes of assailants were 
taking measures to prevent indiscriminate plunder. 
The great bell was tolled, as summons to a military 
council, and its iron tongue communicating to Liege 
the triumphant possession of Schonwaldt by the 
insurgents, was answered by all the bells in that 
city; whose distant and clamorous voices seemed 
to cry, Hail to the victors ! It would have been 
natural, that Meinheer Pavilion should now have 
sallied from his fastness ; but, either in reverent 
care of those whom he had taken under his protec- 
tion, or perhaps for the better assurance of his own 
safety, he contented himself with dispatching mes- 
senger on messenger, to command his lieutenant, 
Peterkin Geislaer, to attend him directly. 

Peterkin came at length, to his great relief, as 
being the person upon whom, on all pressing occa- 
sions, whether of war, politics, or commerce, Pa- 
vilion was most accustomed to repose confidence. 
He was a stout, squat figure, with a square face, 
and broad black eyebrows, that announced him to 
be opinionative and disputatious, — an advice-giving 
countenance, so to speak. He was endued with a 
buff jerkin, wore a broad belt and cutlass by his side, 
and carried a halberd in his hand. 

“Peterkin, my dear lieutenant,” said his com- 
mander, “ this has been a glorious day — night, I 
should say — I trust thou art pleased for once ? ” 

“ I am well enough pleased that you are so,” 
said the doughty lieutenant ; “ though I should not 
have thought of your celebrating the victory, if you 


62 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


call it one, up in this garret by yourself, when you 
are wanted in council.” 

“ But am I wanted there ? ” said the Syndic. 

“ Ay, marry are you, to stand up for the rights 
of Liege, that are in more danger than ever,’* 
answered the Lieutenant. 

“ Pshaw, Peterkin,” answered his principal, “ thou 
art ever such a frampold grumbler ” 

“ Grumbler ? not I,” said Peterkin ; “ what pleases 
other people, will always please me. Only I wish 
we have not got King Stork, instead of King Log, 
like the fabliau that the Clerk of Saint Lamberts 
used to read us out of Meister’s iEsop’s book.” 

“ I cannot guess your meaning, Peterkin,” said 
the Syndic. 

“ Why then, I tell you, Master Pavilion, that 
this Boar, or Bear, is like to make his own den of 
Schonwaldt, and ’tis probable to turn out as bad a 
neighbour to our town as ever was the old Bishop, 
and worse. Here has he taken the whole conquest 
in his own hand, and is only doubting whether he 
should be called Prince or Bishop ; — and it is a 
shame to see how they have mishandled the old man 
among them.” 

“ I will not permit it, Peterkin,” said Pavilion, 
bustling up ; “I disliked the mitre, but not the 
head that wore it. We are ten to one in the field, 
Peterkin, and will not permit these courses.” 

“ Ay, ten to one in the field, but only man to 
man in the castle; besides that Nikkei Blok the 
butcher, and all the rabble of the suburbs, take part 
with William de la Marck, partly for saus and 
brans , (for he has broached all the ale-tubs and 
wine-casks,) and partly for old envy towards us, 
who are the craftsmen, and have privileges.” 


QUENTIN I) UR WARD. 63 

“ Peter,” said Pavilion, “ we will go presently 
to the city. I will stay no longer in Schonwaldt.” 

“ But the bridges of this castle are up, master,” 
said Geislaer — “ the gates locked, and guarded by 
these lanzknechts : and, if we were to try to force 
our way, these fellows, whose every-day business is 
war, might make wild work of us, that only fight of 
a holy day.” 

“ But why has he secured the gates ? ” said the 
alarmed burgher; “or what business hath he to 
make honest men prisoners?” 

“ I cannot tell — not I,” said Peter, “ Some noise 
there is about the Ladies of Croye, who have es- 
caped during the storm of the Castle. That first 
put the Man with the Beard beside himself with 
anger, and now he’s beside himself with drink also.” 

The Burgomaster cast a disconsolate look towards 
Quentin, and seemed at a loss what to resolve 
upon. Durward, who had not lost a word of the 
conversation, which alarmed him very much, saw 
nevertheless that their only safety depended on his 
preserving his own presence of mind, and sustain- 
ing the courage of Pavilion. He struck boldly into 
the conversation, as one who had a right to have a 
voice in the deliberation. — “I am ashamed,” he 
said, “ Meinheer Pavilion, to observe you hesitate 
what to do on this occasion. Go boldly to William 
de la Marck, and demand free leave to quit the 
castle, you, your lieutenant, your squire, and your 
daughter. He can have no pretence for keeping 
you prisoner.” 

“ For me and my lieutenant — that is myself and 
Peter ? — good — but who is my squire ? ” 

“ I am, for the present,” replied the undaunted 
Scot. 


64 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ You ! ” said the embarrassed burgess , “ but are 
you not the envoy of King Louis of France ?" 

“ True, but my message is to the magistrates of 
Liege — and only in Liege will I deliver it. — Were 
I to acknowledge my quality before William de la 
Marck, must I not enter into negotiation with him ? 
ay, and, it is like, be detained by him. You must 
get me secretly out of the Castle in the capacity of 
your squire.” 

“ Good — my squire ; — but you spoke of my 
daughter — my daughter is, I trust, safe in my 
house in Liege — where I wish her father was, with 
all my heart and soul.” 

“ This lady,” said Durward, “ will call you father 
while we are in this place.” 

“ And for my whole life afterwards,” said the 
Countess, throwing herself at the citizen’s feet, and 
clasping his knees. — “ Never shall the day pass in 
which I will not honour you, love you, and pray 
for you as a daughter for a father, if you will but 
aid me in this fearful strait — 0, be not hard-hearted ! 
think your own daughter may kneel to a stranger, 
to ask him for life and honour — think of this, and 
give me the protection you would wish her to 
receive ! ” 

“ In troth,” said the good citizen, much moved 
with her pathetic appeal — “I think, Peter, that 
this pretty maiden hath a touch of our Trudchen’s 
sweet look, — I thought so from the first ; and that 
this brisk youth here, who is so ready with his 
advice, is somewhat like Trudchen’s bachelor — I 
wager a groat, Peter, that this is a true-love mat- 
ter, and it is a sin not to further it.” 

“It were shame and sin both,” said Peter, a 
good-natured Fleming, notwithstanding all his self- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 65 

conceit ; and as he spoke, he wiped his eyes with 
the sleeve of his jerkin. 

“ She shall be my daughter, then,” said Pavilion, 
“well wrapped up in her black silk veil; and if 
there are not enough of true-hearted skinners to* 
protect her, being the daughter of their Syndic, it 
were pity they should ever tug leather more. — But 
hark ye, — questions must be answered — How if I 
am asked what should my daughter make here at 
such an onslaught ? ” 

“ What should half the women in Liege make 
here when they followed us to the Castle?” said 
Peter ; “ they had no other reason, sure, but that it 
was just the place in the world that they should 
not have come to. — Our yung frau Trudchen has 
come a little farther than the rest — that is all.” 

“Admirably spoken,” said Quentin: “only be 
bold, and take this gentleman’s good counsel, noble 
Meinheer Pavilion, and, at no trouble to yourself, 
you will do the most worthy action since the days 
of Charlemagne. — Here, sweet lady, wrap yourself 
close in this veil,” (for many articles of female ap- 
parel lay scattered about the apartment,) — “ be but 
confident, and a few minutes will place you in free- 
dom and safety. — Noble sir,” he added, addressing 
Pavilion, “ set forward.” 

“Hold — hold — hold a minute,” said Pavilion, 

“ my mind misgives me ! — This De la Marck is a 
fury ; a perfect boar in his nature as in his name ; 
what if the young lady be one of those of Croye ? 
— and what if he discover her, and be addicted to 
wrath ? ” 

“ And if I were (fne of those unfortunate women,” 
said Isabelle, again attempting to throw herself at 
his feet, “ could you for that reject me in this mo- 


66 


QUENTIN DURWAB1). 


meat of despair ? Oh, that I had been indeed your 
daughter, or the daughter of the poorest burgher ! ” 

“ Not so poor — not so poor neither, young lady 
— we pay as we go,” said the citizen. 

“ Forgive me, noble sir,” — again began the un- 
fortunate maiden. 

“ Not noble, nor sir neither,” said the Syndic ; 
“a plain burgher of Liege, that pays bills of ex- 
change in ready guilders. — But that is nothing to 
the purpose. — Well, say you be a countess, I will 
protect you nevertheless.” 

“ You are bound to protect her, were she a duch- 
ess,” said Peter, “ having once passed your word.” 

“ Right, Peter, very right,” said the Syndic ; “ it 
is our old Low Dutch fashion, ein wort , ein man ; 
and now let us to this gear. — We must take leave 
of this William de la Marck ; and yet I know not, 
my mind misgives me when I think of him ; and 
were it a ceremony which could be waved, I have 
no stomach to go through it.” 

“ Were you not better, since you have a force 
together, make for the gate and force the guard ? ” 
said Quentin. 

But with united voice, Pavilion and his adviser 
exclaimed against the propriety of such an attack 
upon their ally’s soldiers, with some hints concern- 
ing its rashness, which satisfied Quentin that it was 
not a risk to be hazarded with such associates. 
They resolved, therefore, to repair boldly to the 
great hall of the castle, where, as they understood, 
the Wild Boar of Ardennes held his feast, and de- 
mand free egress for the Syndic of Liege and his 
company, a request too reasonable, as it seemed, to 
be denied. Still the good Burgomaster groaned 
when he looked on his companions, and exclaimed 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


67 


to his faithful Peter, — “ See what it is to have too 
bold and too tender a heart ! .Alas ! Perkin, how 
much have courage and humanity cost me ! and 
how much may I yet have to pay for my virtues, 
before Heaven makes us free of this damned Castle 
of Schonwaldt ! ” 

As they crossed the courts, still strewed with 
the dying and dead, Quentin, while he supported 
Isabelle through the scene of horrors, whispered to 
her courage and comfort, and reminded her that 
her safety depended entirely on her firmness and 
presence of mind. 

“Not on mine — not on mine,” she said, “but 
on yours — on yours only. — 0, if I but escape this 
fearful night, never shall I forget him who saved 
me ! One favour more only, let me implore at your 
hand, and I conjure you to grant it, by your mother’s 
fame and your father’s honour ! ” 

“ What is it you can ask that I could refuse ? ” 
said Quentin, in a whisper. 

“Plunge your dagger in my heart,” said she, 
“ rather than leave me captive in the hands of these 
monsters.” 

Quentin’s only answer was a pressure of the 
young Countess’s hand, which seemed as if, but for 
terror, it would have returned the caress. And, 
leaning on her youthful protector, she entered the 
fearful hall, preceded by Pavilion and his Lieu- 
tenant, and followed by a dozen of the Kurschen- 
schaft, or skinner’s trade, who attended, as a guard 
of honour, on the Syndic. 

As they approached the hall, the yells of accla- 
mation, and bursts of wild laughter, which pro- 
ceeded from it, seemed rather to announce the revel 
of festive demons, rejoicing after some accomplished 


68 


QUENTIN D UR WARD. 


triumph over the human race, than of mortal beings, 
who had succeeded in a bold design. An emphatic 
tone of mind, which despair alone could have in- 
spired, supported the assumed courage of the Coun- 
tess Isabelle; undaunted spirits, which rose with 
the extremity, maintained that of Durward ; while 
Pavilion and his lieutenant made a virtue of neces- 
sity, and faced their fate like bears bound to a 
stake, which must necessarily stand the dangers of 
the course. 


CHAPTEK V. 


THE REVELLERS. 

Cade. Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford ? 

Dick. Here, sir. 

Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen ; and thou 
behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter- 
house. 

Second Part of King Henry VI. 

There could hardly exist a more strange and 
horrible change than had taken place in the castle- 
hall of Schonwaldt since Quentin had partaken of 
the noontide meal there ; and it was indeed one 
which painted, in the extremity of their dreadful 
features, the miseries of war — more especially when 
waged by those most relentless of all agents, the 
mercenary soldiers of a barbarous age — men who, 
by habit and profession, had become familiarized 
with all that was cruel and bloody in the art of 
war, while they were devoid alike of patriotism 
and of the romantic spirit of chivalry. 

Instead of the orderly, decent, and somewhat 
formal meal, at which civil and ecclesiastical offi- 
cers had, a few hours before, sat mingled in the 
same apartment, where a light jest could only he 
uttered in a whisper, and where, even amid super- 
fluity of feasting and of wine, there reigned a deco- 
rum which almost amounted to hypocrisy, there was 
now such a scene of wild and roaring debauchery, 


70 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


as Satan himself, had he taken the chair as founder 
of the feast, could scarcely have improved. 

At the head of the table sat, in the Bishop’s 
throne and state, which had been hastily brought 
thither from his great council-chamber, the re- 
doubted Boar of Ardennes himself, 'well deserving 
that dreaded name, in which he affected to delight, 
and which he did as much as he could think of to 
deserve. His head was unhelmeted, but he w r ore 
the rest of his ponderous and bright armour, which 
indeed he rarely laid aside. Over his shoulders 
hung a strong surcoat, made of the dressed skin of 
a huge wild-boar, the hoofs being of solid silver, 
and the tusks of the same. The skin of the head 
was so arranged, that, drawn over the casque, when 
the Baron was armed, or over his bare head, in the 
fashion of a hood, as he often affected when the hel- 
met was laid aside, and as he now wore it, the effect 
was that of a grinning, ghastly monster ; and yet 
the countenance which it overshadowed scarce 
required such horrors to improve those which were 
natural to its ordinary expression. 

The upper part of De la Marck’s face, as Nature 
had formed it, almost gave the lie to his character ; 
for though his hair, when uncovered, resembled the 
rude and wild bristles of the hood he had drawn 
over it, yet an open, high, and manly forehead, 
broad ruddy cheeks, large, sparkling, light-coloured 
eyes, and a nose hooked like the beak of the eagle, 
promised something valiant and generous. But the 
effect of these more favourable traits was entirely 
overpowered by his habits of violence and inso- 
lence, which, joined to debauchery and intemper- 
ance, had stamped upon the features a character 
inconsistent with the rough gallantry which they 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


7i 


would otherwise have exhibited. The former had, 
from habitual indulgence, swoln the muscles of the 
cheeks, and those around the eyes, in particular the 
latter ; evil practices and habits had dimmed the 
eyes themselves, reddened the part of them that 
should have been white, and given the whole face 
a hideous likeness of the monster, which it was the 
terrible Baron’s pleasure to resemble. But from 
an odd sort of contradiction, De la Marck, while 
he assumed in other respects the appearance of the 
Wild Boar, and even seemed pleased with the 
name, yet endeavoured, by the length and growth 
of his beard, to conceal the circumstance that had 
originally procured him that denomination. This 
was an unusual thickness and projection of the 
mouth and upper jaw, which, with the huge pro- 
jecting side teeth, gave that resemblance to the 
bestial creation, which, joined to the delight that 
De la Marck had in haunting the forest so called, 
originally procured for him the name of the Boar 
of Ardennes. The beard, broad, grisly, and un- 
combed, neither concealed the natural horrors of the 
countenance, nor dignified its brutal expression. 

The soldiers and officers sat around the table, 
intermixed with the men of Liege, some of them 
of the very lowest description ; among whom Nik- 
kei Blok the butcher, placed near De la Marck . 
himself, was distinguished by his tucked-up sleeves, 
which displayed arms smeared to the elbows with 
blood, as was the cleaver which lay on the table 
before him. The soldiers wore, most of them, their 
beards long and grisly, in imitation of their leader ; 
had their hair plaited and turned upwards, in the 
manner that might best improve the natural feroc- 
ity of their appearance ; and intoxicated, as many 


72 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


of them seemed to be, partly with the sense of 
triumph, and partly with the long libations of wine 
which they had been quaffing, presented a spectacle 
at once hideous and disgusting. The language 
which they held, and the songs which they sung, 
without even pretending to pay each other the com- 
pliment of listening, were so full of license and 
blasphemy, that Quentin blessed God that the ex- 
tremity of the noise prevented them from being 
intelligible to his companion. 

It only remains to say, of the better class of 
burghers who were associated with William de la 
Marck’s soldiers in this fearful revel, that the wan 
faces and anxious mien of the greater part, showed 
that they either disliked their entertainment, or 
feared their companions ; while some of lower edu- 
cation, or a nature more brutal, saw only in the 
excesses of the soldier a gallant bearing, which they 
would willingly imitate, and the tone of which they 
endeavoured to catch scr far as was possible, and 
stimulated themselves to the task, by swallowing 
immense draughts of wine and schwarz bier — indulg- 
ing a vice which at all times was too common in 
the Low Countries. 

The preparations for the feast had been as dis- 
orderly as the quality of the company. The whole 
of the Bishop’s plate — nay, even that belonging to 
the service of the Church, for the Boar of Ardennes 
regarded not the imputation of sacrilege — was 
mingled with black-jacks, or huge tankards made of 
leather, and drinking-horns of the most ordinary 
description. 

One circumstance of horror remains to be added 
and accounted for ; and we willingly leave the 
rest of the scene to the imagination of the reader. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


73 


Amidst the wild license assumed by the soldiers of 
De la Marck, one who was excluded from the table, 
(a lanzknecht, remarkable for his courage and for 
his daring behaviour during the storm of the even- 
ing,) had impudently snatched up a large silver 
goblet, and carried it off, declaring it should atone 
for his loss of the share of the feast. The leader 
laughed till his sides shook at a jest so congenial 
to the character of the company ; but when another, 
less renowned, it would seem, for audacity in battle, 
ventured on using the same freedom, De la Marck 
instantly put a check to a jocular practice, which 
would soon have cleared his table of all the more 
valuable decorations. - — “ Ho ! by the spirit of the 
thunder ! ” he exclaimed, “ those who dare not be 
men when they face the enemy, must not pretend 
to be thieves among their friends. What ! thou 
frontless dastard, thou — thou who didst wait for 
opened gate and lowered bridge, when Conrade Horst 
forced his way over moat and wall, must thou be mal- 
apert ? — Knit him up to the stanchions of the hall- 
window ! — He shall beat time with his feet, while 
we drink a cup to his safe passage to the devil.” 

The doom was scarce sooner pronounced than ac- 
complished ; and in a moment the wretch wrestled 
out his last agonies, suspended from the iron bars. 
His body still hung there when Quentin and the 
others entered the hall, and intercepting the pale 
moonbeam, threw on the castle-floor an uncertain 
shadow, which dubiously, yet fearfully, intimated 
the nature of the substance that produced it. 

When the Syndic Pavilion was announced from 
mouth to mouth in this tumultuous meeting, he 
endeavoured to assume, in right of his authority 
and influence, an air of importance and equality, 


74 


QUENTIN DU K WARD. 


which a glance at the fearful object at the window, 
and at the wild scene around him, rendered it very 
difficult for him to sustain, notwithstanding the 
exhortations of Peter, who whispered in his ear, 
with some perturbation, “Up heart, master, or we 
are but gone men ! ” 

The Syndic maintained his dignity, however, as 
well as he could, in a short address, in which he 
complimented the company upon the great victory 
gained by the soldiers of De la Marck and the good 
citizens of Liege. 

“ Ay,” answered De la Marck, sarcastically, “ we 
have brought down the game at last, quoth my 
lady’s brach to the wolf-hound. But ho ! Sir Burgo- 
master, you come like Mars, with Beauty by your 
side. Who is this fair one ? — Unveil, unveil — no 
woman calls her beauty her own to-night.” 

“ It is my daughter, noble leader,” answered 
Pavilion ; “ and I am to pray your forgiveness for 
her wearing a veil. She has a vow for that effect to 
the Three Blessed Kings.” 

“ I will absolve her of it presently,” said De la 
Marck ; “ for here, with one stroke of a cleaver, 
will I consecrate myself Bishop of Liege ; and I 
trust one living bishop is worth three dead kings.” 

There was a shuddering and murmur among the 
guests , for the community of Liege, and even some 
of the rude soldiers, reverenced the Kings of 
Cologne, as they were commonly called, though they 
respected nothing else. 

“Nay, I mean no treason against their defunct 
majesties,” said De la Marck ; “ only bishop I am 
determined to be. A prince both secular and ec- 
clesiastical, having power to bind and loose, will 
best suit a band of reprobates such as you, to whom 


QUENTIN DUE WARD. 


75 


no one else would give absolution. — But come 
hither, noble Burgomaster — sit beside me, when 
you shall see me make a vacancy for my own pre- 
ferment. — Bring in our predecessor in the holy 
seat” 

A bustle took place in the hall, while Pavilion, 
excusing himself from the proffered seat of honour, 
placed himself near the bottom of the table, his 
followers keeping close behind him, not unlike a 
Hock of sheep which, when a stranger dog is in 
presence, may be sometimes seen to assemble in 
the rear of an old belwether, who is, from office 
and authority, judged by them to have rather more 
courage than themselves. Near the spot sat a very 
handsome lad, a natural son, as was said, of the 
ferocious De la Marck, and towards whom he 
sometimes showed affection, and even tenderness. 
The mother of the boy, a beautiful concubine, had 
perished by a blow tlealt her by the ferocious leader 
in a fit of drunkenness or jealousy ; and her fate 
had caused her tyrant as much remorse as he was 
capable of feeling. His attachment to the surviv- 
ing orphan might be partly owing to these circum- 
stances. Quentin, who had learned this point of 
the leader’s character from the old priest, planted 
himself as close as he could to the youth in ques- 
tion ; determined to make him, in some way or 
other, either a hostage or a protector, should other 
means of safety fail them. 

While all stood in a kind of suspense, waiting 
the event of the orders which the tyrant had issued, 
one of Pavilion’s followers whispered Peter, “ Did 
not our master call that wench his daughter? — 
Why, it cannot be our Trudchen. This strapping 
lass is taller by two inches ; and there is a black 


76 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


lock of hair peeps forth yonder from under her 
veil. By Saint Michael of the Market-place, you 
might as well call a black bullock’s hide a white 
heifer’s ! ” 

“ Hush 1 hush 1 ” said Peter, with some presence 
of mind — “ What if our master hath a mind to 
steal a piece of doe-venison out of the Bishop’s park 
here without our good dame’s knowledge ? And 
is it for thee or me to be a spy on him ? ” 

“ That will not I, brother,” answered the other, 
“ though I would not have thought of his turning 
deer-stealer at his years. Sapperment — what a 
shy fairy it is! See how she crouches down on 
yonder seat, behind folk’s backs, to escape the gaze 
of the Marckers. — But hold, h$ld; what are they 
about to do with the poor-oM iBiskop ? ” 

As he spoke, the Bishop of Liege, Louis of Bourbon, 
was dragged into the hall of his own palace by the 
brutal soldiery. The dishevelled state of his hair, 
beard, and attire, bore witness to the ill treatment 
he had already received; and some of his sacerdotal 
robes hastily flung over him, appeared to have been 
put on in scorn and ridicule of his quality and char- 
acter. By good fortune, as Quentin was compelled 
to think it, the Countess Isabelle, whose feelings at 
seeing her protector in such an extremity might 
have betrayed her own secret and compromised her 
safety, was so situated as neither to hear nor see 
what was about to take place ; and Durward sedu- 
lously interposed his own person before her, so as to 
keep her from observing alike, and from observation. 

The scene which followed was short and fearful. 
When the unhappy Preltfi^ was brought before the 
footstool of the ‘savage leader, although in former 
life only remarkable for his easy and good-natured 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


77 


temper, he showed in this extremity a sense of his 
dignity and noble blood, well becoming the high 
race from which he was descended. His look was 
composed and undismayed; his gesture, when the 
rude hands which dragged him forward were un- t 
loosed, was noble, and at the same time resigned, 
somewhat between the bearing of a feudal noble 
and of a Christian martyr ; and so much was even 
De la Marck himself staggered by the firm de- 
meanour of his prisoner, and recollection of the 
early benefits he had received from him, that he 
seemed irresolute, cast down his eyes, and it was 
not until he had emptied a large goblet of wine, 
that, resuming his haughty insolence of look and 
manner, he thus addressed his unfortunate captive : 
— “ Louis of Bourbon,” said the truculent soldier, 
drawing hard his breath, clenching his hands, set- 
ting his teeth, and using the other mechanical ac- 
tions to rouse up and sustain his native ferocity of 
temper — “I sought your friendship, and you re^ 
jected mine. What would you now give that it had 
been otherwise ? — Nikkei, be ready.” 

The butcher rose, seized his weapon, and stealing 
round behind De la Marck’s chair, stood with it 
uplifted in his bare and sinewy arms. 

“ Look at that man, Louis of Bourbon,” said De la 
Marck again — “ What terms wilt thou now offer, to 
escape this dangerous hour ? ” 

The Bishop cast a melancholy but unshaken look 
upon the grisly satellite, who seemed prepared to 
execute the will of the tyrant, and then he said with 
firmness, “ Hear me, William de la Marck ; and good 
men all, if there be any here who deserve that name, 
hear the only terms I can offer to this ruffian. — 
William de la Marck, thou hast stirred up to sedition 


78 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


an imperial city — hast assaulted and taken the palace 
of a Prince of the Holy German Empire — slain his 
people — plundered his goods — maltreated his per- 
son ; for this thou art liable to the Ban of the Em- 
pire — hast deserved to be declared outlawed and 
fugitive, landless and rightless. Thou hast done 
more than all this. More than mere human laws 
hast thou broken — more than mere human ven- 
geance hast thou deserved. Thou hast broken into 
the sanctuary of the Lord — laid violent hands 
upon a Father of the Church — defiled the house 
of God with blood and rapine, like a sacrilegious 
robber ” 

“Hast thou yet done?” said De la Marck, fiercely 
interrupting him, and stamping with his foot. 

“No,” answered the Prelate, “for I have not yet 
told thee the terms which you demanded to hear 
from me.” 

“ Go on,” said De la Marck ; “ and let the terms 
please me better than the preface, or woe to thy 
grey head !” And flinging himself back in his seat, 
he grinded his teeth till the foam flew from his 
lips, as from the tusks of the savage animal whose 
name and spoils he wore. 

“ Such are thy crimes,” resumed the Bishop, with 
calm determination ; “ now hear the terms, which, 
as a merciful Prince and a Christian Prelate, setting 
aside all personal offence, forgiving each peculiar 
injury, I condescend to offer. Fling down thy 
leading-staff — renounce thy command — unbind 
thy prisoners — restore thy spoil — distribute what 
else thou hast of goods, to relieve those whom thou 
hast made orphans and widows — array thyself in 
sackcloth and ashes — take a palmer’s staff in thy 
hand, and go barefooted on pilgrimage to Rome, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


79 


and we will ourselves be intercessors for thee with 
the Imperial Chamber at Ratisbon for thy life, with 
our Holy Father the Pope for thy miserable soul.” 

While Louis of Bourbon proposed these terms, 
in a tone as decided as if he still occupied his epis- 
copal throne, and as if the usurper kneeled a sup- 
pliant at his feet, the tyrant slowly raised himself 
in his chair, the amazement with which he was at 
first filled giving way gradually to rage, until, as 
the Bishop ceased, he looked to Nikkei Blok, and 
raised his finger; without speaking a word. The 
ruffian struck, as if he had been doing his office in 
the common shambles, and the murdered Bishop 
sunk, without a groan, at the foot of his own epis- 
copal throne . 1 The Liegeois, who were not prepared 
for so horrible a catastrophe, and who had expected 
to hear the conference end in some terms of accom- 
modation, started up unanimously, with cries of exe- 
cration, mingled with shouts of vengeance. 

But William de la Marck, raising his tremendous 
voice above the tumult, and shaking his clenched 
hand and extended arm, shouted aloud, “ How now, 
ye porkers of Liege ! ye wallowers in the mud of 
the Maes! — do ye dare to mate yourselves with the 
Wild Boar of Ardennes? — Up, ye Boar’s brood!” 
(an expression by which he himself, and others, 
often designated his soldiers,) “let these Flemish 
hogs see your tusks ! ” 

Every one of his followers started up at the com- 
mand, and mingled as they were among their late 
allies, prepared too for such a surprisal, each had, in 
an instant, his next neighbour by the collar, while 
his right hand brandished a broad dagger, that glim- 


1 Note I. — Murder of the Bishop of Liege 


8o 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


mered against lamplight and moonshine. Every arm 
was uplifted, but no one struck ; for the victims were 
too much surprised for resistance, and it was probably 
the object of De la Marck only to impose terror on 
his civic confederates. 

But the courage of Quentin Durward, prompt 
and alert in resolution beyond his years, and stim- 
ulated at the moment by all that could add energy 
to his natural shrewdness and resolution, gave a 
new turn to the scene. Imitating the action of the 
followers of De la Marck, he sprung on Carl Eber- 
son, the son of their leader, and mastering him 
with ease, held his dirk at the boy’s throat, while 
he exclaimed, “ Is that your game ? then here I 
play my part.” 

“ Hold ! hold ! ” exclaimed De la Marck, “ it is 
a jest — a jest — Think you I would injure my good 
friends and allies of the city of Liege ? — Soldiers, 
unloose your holds ; sit down ; take away the car- 
rion” (giving the Bishop’s corpse a thrust with his 
foot) “ which hath caused this strife among friends, 
and let us drown unkindness in a fresh carouse.” 

All unloosened their holds, and the citizens and 
soldiers stood gazing on each other, as if they scarce 
knew whether they were friends or foes. Quentin 
Durward took advantage of the moment. 

“Hear me,” he said, “William de la Marck, and 
you, burghers and citizens of Liege ; — and do you, 
young sir, stand still,” (for the boy Carl was at- 
tempting to escape from his gripe ;) “no harm shall 
befall you, unless another of these sharp jests shall 
pass round.” 

“Who art thou, in the fiend’s name,” said the 
astonished De la Marck, “who art come to hold 
terms and take hostages from us in our own lair — 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


8r 


from us, who exact pledges from others, hut yield 
them to no one ? ” 

“ I am a servant of King Louis of France,” said 
Quentin, boldly ; “ an Archer of his Scottish Guard, 
as my language and dress may partly tell you. I 
am here to behold and to report your proceedings ; 
and I see with wonder, that they are those of 
heathens, rather than Christians — of madmen, 
rather than men possessed of reason. The hosts of 
Charles of Burgundy will be instantly in motion 
against you all; and if you wish assistance from 
France, you must conduct yourselves in a different 
manner. — For you, men of Liege, I advise your in- 
stant return to your own city ; and if there is any 
obstruction offered to your departure, I denounce 
those by whom it is so offered, foes to my master, 
his most gracious Majesty of France.” 

“France and Liege! France and Liege!” cried * 
the followers of Pavilion, and several other citizens, 
whose courage began to rise at the bold language 
held by Quentin. 

“France and Liege, and long live the gallant 
Archer ! We will live and die with him !” 

William de la Marck’s eyes sparkled, and he 
grasped his dagger as if about to launch it at the 
heart of the audacious speaker; but glancing his 
eye around, he read something in the looks of his 
soldiers, which even he was obliged to respect. 
Many of them were Frenchmen, and all of them 
knew the private support which William had re- 
ceived, both in men and in money, from that king- 
dom ; nay, some of them were rather startled at the 
violent and sacrilegious action which had been just 
committed. The name of Charles of Burgundy, a 
person likely to resent to the utmost the deeds of 


82 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


that night, had an alarming sound, and the extreme 
impolicy of at once quarrelling with the Liegeois 
and provoking the Monarch of France, made an 
appalling impression on their minds, confused as 
their intellects were. De la Marck, in short, saw he 
would not he supported, even by his own band, in 
any farther act of immediate violence, and relaxing 
the terrors of his brow and eye, declared that “ he 
had not the least design against his good friends of 
Liege, all of whom were at liberty to depart from 
Schonwaldt at their pleasure ; although he had 
hoped they would revel one night with him, at 
least, in honour of their victory.” He added, with 
more calmness than he commonly used, that “ he 
would be ready to enter into negotiation concerning 
the partition of spoil, and the arrangement of mea- 
sures for their mutual defence, either the next day, or 
as soon after as they would. Meantime, he trusted 
that the Scottish gentleman would honour his feast 
by remaining all night at Schonwaldt.” 

The young Scot returned his thanks, but said, 
his motions must be determined by those of Pavil- 
ion, to whom he was directed particularly to attach 
himself ; but that, unquestionably, he would attend 
him on his next return to the quarters of the val- 
iant William de la Marck. 

“If you depend on my motions,” said Pavilion, 
hastily and aloud, “ you are likely to quit Schon- 
waldt without an instant’s delay ; and, if you do 
not come back to Schonwaldt, save in my company, 
you are not likely to see it again in a hurry.” 

This last part of the sentence the honest citizen 
muttered to himself, afraid of the consequences of 
giving audible vent to feelings, which, nevertheless, 
he was unable altogether to suppress. 


QUENTIN DURVVARD. 


83 


“ Keep close about me. my brisk Kurschner lads,” 
he said to his body-guard, “ and we will get as fast 
as we can out of this den of thieves.” 

Most of the better classes of the Liegeois seemed 
to entertain similar opinions with the Syndic, and 
there had been scarce so much joy amongst them 
at the obtaining possession of Schonwaldt, as now 
seemed to arise from the prospect of getting safe 
'out of it. They were suffered to leave the castle 
without opposition of any kind ; and glad was Quen- 
tin when he turned his back on those formidable 
walls. 

For the first time since they had entered that 
dreadful hall, Quentin ventured to ask the young 
Countess how she did. 

“ Well, well,” she answered, in feverish haste, 
“ excellently well — do not stop to ask a question ; 
let us not lose an instant in words — Let us fly — 
let us fly ! ” 

She endeavoured to mend her pace as she spoke ; 
but with so little success, that she must have fallen 
from exhaustion, had not Durward supported her. 
With the tenderness of a mother, when she conveys 
her infant out of danger, the young Scot raised his 
precious charge in his arms ; and, while she en- 
circled his neck with one arm, lost to every other 
thought save the desire of escaping, he would not 
have wished one of the risks of the night unen- 
countered, since such had been the conclusion. 

The honest Burgomaster was, in his turn, sup- 
ported and dragged forward by his faithful coun- 
sellor Peter, and another of his clerks ; and thus, 
in breathless haste, they reached the banks of the 
river, encountering many strolling bands of citizens, 
who were eager to know the event of the siege } 


8 4 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


and the truth of certain rumours already afloat, that 
the conquerors had quarrelled among themselves. 

Evading their curiosity as they best could, the 
exertions of Peter and some of his companions at 
length procured a boat for the use of the company, 
and with it an opportunity of enjoying some repose, 
equally welcome to Isabelle, who continued to lie 
almost motionless in the arms of her preserver, and 
to the worthy Burgomaster, who, after delivering 
a broken string of thanks to Durward, whose mind 
was at the time too much occupied to answer him, 
began a long harangue, which he addressed to Peter, 
upon his own courage and benevolence, and the 
dangers to which these virtues had exposed him, 
on this and other occasions. 

“ Peter, Peter,” he said, resuming the complaint 
of the preceding evening, “ if I had not had a bold 
heart, I would never have stood out against paying 
the burghers-twentieths, when every other living 
soul was willing to pay the same. — Ay, and then 
a less stout heart had not seduced me into that 
other battle of Saint Tron, where a Hainault man- 
at-arms thrust me into a muddy ditch with his 
.lance, which neither heart nor hand that I had 
could help me out of, till the battle was over — Ay, 
and then, Peter, this very night my courage se- 
duced me, moreover, into too strait a corslet, 
which would have been the death of me, but for 
the aid of this gallant young gentleman, whose 
trade is fighting, whereof I wish him heartily joy. 
And then for my tenderness of heart, Peter, it has 
made a poor man of me — that is, it would have 
made a poor man of me, if I had not been tolerably 
well to pass in this wicked world ; — and Heaven 
knows what trouble it is like to bring on me yet, 


QUENTIN D UR WARD. 


85 


with ladies, countesses, and keeping of secrets, 
which, for aught I know, may cost me half my 
fortune, and my neck into the bargain ! ” 

Quentin could remain no longer silent, but as- 
sured him, that whatever danger or damage he 
should incur on the part of the young lady now 
under his protection, should be thankfully acknow- 
ledged, and, as far as was possible, repaid. 

“ I thank you, young Master Squire Archer, I 
thank you,” answered the citizen of Liege ; “ but 
who was it told you that I desired any repayment 
at your hand for doing the duty of an honest man ? 
I only regretted that it might cost me so and so ; 
and I hope I may have leave to say so much to 
my lieutenant, without either grudging my loss or 
my peril.” 

Quentin accordingly concluded that his present 
friend was one of the numerous class of benefactors 
to others, who take out their reward in gruim 
bling, without meaning more than, by showing their 
grievances, to exalt a little the idea of the valuable 
service by which they have incurred them, and 
therefore prudently remained silent, and suffered 
the Syndic to maunder on to his lieutenant con- 
cerning the risk and the loss he had encountered 
by his zeal for the public good, and his disinterested 
services to individuals, until they reached his own 
habitation. 

The truth was, that the honest citizen felt that 
he had lost a little consequence, by suffering the 
young stranger to take the lead at the crisis which 
had occurred at the castle-hall of Schonwaldt ; and, 
however delighted with the effect of Durward’s in- 
terference at the moment, it seemed to him, on 
reflection, that he had sustained a diminution of 


86 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


importance, for which he endeavoured to obtain 
compensation, by exaggerating the claims which 
he had upon the gratitude of his country in general, 
his friends in particular, and more especially still, on 
the Countess of Croye, and her youthful protector. 

But when the boat stopped at the bottom of his 
garden, and he had got himself assisted on shore 
by Peter, it seemed as if the touch of his own 
threshold had at once dissipated those feelings of 
wounded self-opinion and jealousy, and converted 
the discontented and obscured demagogue into the 
honest, kind, hospitable, and friendly host. He 
called loudly for Trudchen, who presently appeared ; 
for fear and anxiety would permit few within the 
walls of Liege to sleep during that eventful night. 
She was charged to pay the utmost attention to the 
care of the beautiful and half-fainting stranger; 
and, admiring her personal charms, while she pitied 
her distress, Gertrude discharged the hospitable 
duty with the zeal and affection of a sister. 

Late as it now was, and fatigued as the Syndic 
appeared, Quentin, on his side, had difficulty to 
escape a flask of choice and costly wine, as old 
as the battle of Azincour ; and must have sub- 
mitted to take his share, however unwilling, but 
for the appearance of the mother of the family, 
whom Pavilion’s loud summons for the keys of 
the cellar brought forth from her bedroom. She 
was a jolly little roundabout woman, who had been 
pretty in her time, but whose principal character- 
istics for several years had been a red and sharp 
nose, a shrill voice, and a determination that the 
Syndic, in consideration of the authority which he 
exercised when abroad, should remain under the 
rule of due discipline at home. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


87 


So soon as she understood the nature of the de- 
bate between her husband and his guest, she de- 
clared roundly, that the former, instead of having 
occasion for more wine, had got too much already ; 
and, far from using, in furtherance of his request, 
any of the huge bunch of keys which hung by a 
silver chain at her waist, she turned her back on 
him without ceremony, and ushered Quentin to 
the neat and pleasant apartment in which he was 
to spend the night, amid such appliances to rest 
and comfort as probably he had till that moment 
been entirely a stranger to ; so much did the 
wealthy Flemings excel, not merely thd poor and 
rude Scots, but the French themselves, in all the 
conveniences of domestic life. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE FLIGHT. 


— Now bid me run, 

And I will strive with things impossible ; 

Yea, get the better of them. 

• Set on your foot ; 

And, with a heart new fired, I follow you. 

To do I know not what. 

Julius Caesar 


In spite of a mixture of joy and fear, doubt, anxiety, 
and other agitating passions, the exhausting fatigues 
of the preceding day were powerful enough to 
throw the young Scot into a deep and profound 
repose, which lasted until late on the day follow- 
ing ; when his worthy host entered the , apartment, 
with looks of care on his brow. 

He seated himself by his guest’s bedside, and 
began a long and complicated discourse upon the 
domestic duties of a married life, and especially 
upon the awful power and right supremacy which 
it became married men to sustain in all differences 
of opinion with their wives. Quentin listened wdth 
some anxiety. He knew that husbands, like other 
belligerent powers, were sometimes disposed to sing 
Te Deum , rather to conceal a defeat than to celebrate 
a victory ; and he hastened to probe the matter 
more closely, “ by hoping their arrival had been 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 89 

attended with no inconvenience to the good lady of 
the household.” 

“ Inconvenience ! — no,” answered the Burgo- 
master — “ No woman can be less taken unawares 
than Mother Mabel — always happy to see her 
friends — always a clean lodging and a handsome 
meal ready for them, with God’s blessing on bed 
and board — No woman on earth so hospitable — 
only ’tis pity her temper is something particular.” 

“ Our residence here is disagreeable to her, in 
short ? ” said the Scot, starting out of bed, and 
beginning to dress himself hastily. “ Were I but 
sure the Lady Isabelle were fit for travel after 
the horrors of the last night, we would not in- 
crease the offence by remaining here an instant 
longer.” 

“ Nay,” said Pavilion, “ that is just what the 
young lady herself said to Mother Mabel ; and 
truly T wish you saw the colour that came to her 
face as she said it — a milkmaid that has Skated five 
miles to market against the frost-wind is a lily 
compared to it — I do not wonder Mother Mabel 
may be a little jealous, poor dear soul.” 

“ Has the Lady Isabelle then left her apartment ? ” 
said the youth, continuing his toilette operations 
with more dispatch than before. 

“ Yes,” replied Pavilion ; “ and she expects 

your approach with much impatience, to deter- 
mine which way you shall go — since you are both 
determined on going. — But I trust you will tarry 
breakfast ? ” 

“ Why did you not tell me this sooner ? ” said 
Durward, impatiently. 

“ Softly — softly,” said the Syndic ; “I have told 
it you too soon, I think, if it puts you into such a 


9 ° 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 

hasty fluster. Now I have some more matter for 
your ear, if I saw you had some patience to listen 
to me.” 

“ Speak it, worthy sir, as soon and as fast as you 
can — I listen devoutly.” 

“ Well, then,” resumed the Burgomaster, “ I 
have but one word to say, and that is, that Trud- 
chen, who is as sorry to part with yonder pretty 
lady as if she had been some sister of hers, wants 
you to take some other disguise ; for there is word 
in the town that the Ladies of Croye travel the 
country in pilgrim’s dresses, attended by a French 
life-guardsman of the Scottish Archers ; and it is 
said one of them was brought into Schonwaldt last 
night by a Bohemian after we had left it ; and it 
was said still farther, that this same Bohemian had 
assured William de la Marck that you were charged 
with no message either to him or to the good people 
of Liege, and that you had stolen away the young 
Countess, and travelled with her as her paramour. 
And all this news hath come from Schonwaldt this 
morning ; and it has been told to us and the other 
counsellors, who know not well what to advise ; for 
though our own opinion is that William de la Marck 
has been a thought too rough both with the Bishop 
and with ourselves, yet there is a great belief that 
he is a good-natured soul at bottom — that is, when 
he is sober — and that he is the only leader in the 
world to command us against the Duke of Burgundy ; 
— and, in truth, as matters stand, it is partly my 
own mind that we must keep fair with him, for we 
have gone too far to draw back.” 

“Your daughter advises well,” . said Quentin 
Durward, abstaining from reproaches or exhorta- 
tions, which he saw would be alike unavailing to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


9i 


sway a resolution, which had been adopted by the 
worthy magistrate in compliance at once with the 
prejudices of his party and the inclination of his 
wife — “Your daughter counsels well — We must 
part in disguise, and that instantly. We may, I 
trust, rely upon you for the necessary secrecy, and 
for the means of escape ? ” 

“ With all my heart — with all my heart,” said 
the honest citizen, who, not much satisfied with the 
dignity of l\is own conduct, was eager to find some 
mode of atonement. “ I cannot but remember that 
I owed you my life last night, both for unclasping 
that accursed steel doublet, and helping me through 
the other sciape, Which was worse ; for yonder Boar 
and his brood look more like devils than men. So 
I will be true to you as blade to haft, as our cutlers 
say, who are the best in the whole world. Nay, 
now you are ready, come this way — you shall see 
how far I can trust you.” 

The Syndic led him from the chatnber in which 
he had slept to his own counting-room, in which 
he transacted his affairs of business ; and after bolt- 
ing the door, and casting a piercing and careful eye 
around him, he opened a concealed and vaulted 
closet behind the tapestry, in which stood more 
than one iron chest. He proceeded to open one 
which was full of guilders, and placed it at Quen- 
tin’s discretion, to take whatever sum he might 
think necessary for his companion’s expenses and 
his own. 

As the money with which Quentin was furnished 
on leaving Plessis was now nearly expended, he 
hesitated not to accept the sum of two hundred 
guilders ; and by doing so took a great weight from 
the mind of Pavilion, who considered the desperate 


92 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


transaction in which he thus voluntarily became the 
creditor, as an atonement for the breach of hospi- 
tality which various considerations in a great mea- 
sure compelled him to commit. 

Having carefully locked his treasure-chamber, 
the wealthy Fleming next conveyed his guest to 
the parlour, where, in full possession of her acti- 
vity of mind and body, though pale from the scenes 
of the preceding night, he found the Countess attired 
in the fashion of a Flemish maiden of the middling 
class. No other was present excepting Trudchen, 
who was sedulously employed in completing the 
Countess’s dress, and instructing her how to bear 
herself. She extended her hand to him, which, 
when he had reverently kissed, she said to him, 
“ Seignior Quentin, we must leave our friends here, 
unless I would bring on them a part of the misery 
which has pursued me ever since my father’s death. 
You must change your dress and go with me, 
unless you also are tired of befriending a being so 
unfortunate.” 

“ I ! — I tired of being your attendant ! — To the 
end of the earth will I guard you ! But you — you 
yourself — are you equal to the task you undertake ? 
— Can you, after the terrors of last night” — 

“ Do not recall them to my memory,” answered 
the Countess ; “I remember but the confusion 
of a horrid dream. — Has the excellent Bishop 
escaped ? ” 

“ I trust he is in freedom,” said Quentin, making 
a sign to Pavilion, who seemed about to enter on 
the dreadful narrative, to be silent. 

“ Is it possible for us to rejoin him ? — Hath he 
gathered any power ? ” said the lady. 

“ His only hopes are in ' Heaven,” said the Scot ; 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 93 

• but wherever you wish to go, I stand by your 
side, a determined guide and guard.” 

“We will consider,” said Isabelle; and after a 
moment’s pause, she added, “ A convent would be 
my choice, but that I fear it would prove a weak 
defence against those who pursue me.” 

“Hem! hem!” said the Syndic; “I could not 
well recommend a convent within the district of 
Liege ; because the Boar of Ardennes, though in 
the main a brave leader, a trusty confederate, and 
a well-wisher to our city, has, nevertheless, rough 
humours, and payeth, on the whole, little regard 
to cloisters, convents, nunneries, and the like. Men 
say that there are a score of nuns — that is, 
such as were nuns — who march always with his 
company.” 

“ Get yourself in readiness hastily, Seignior 
Durward,” said Isabelle, interrupting this detail, 
“ since to your faith I must needs commit myself.” 

No sooner had the Syndic and Quentin left the 
room, than Isabelle began to ask of Gertrude various 
questions concerning the roads, and so forth, with 
such clearness of spirit and pertinence, that the 
latter could not help exclaiming, “ Lady, I won- 
der at you ! — I have heard of masculine firmness, 
but yours appears to me more than belongs to 
humanity.” 

“Necessity,” answered the Countess — “neces- 
sity, my friend, is the mother of courage, as of 
invention. No long time since, I might have fainted 
when I saw a drop of blood shed from a trifling cut 
— I have since seen life-blood flow ground me, I 
may say, in waves, yet I have retained my senses 
and my self-possession. — Do not think it was an 
easy task,” she added, laying on Gertrude’s arm a 


94 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


trembling hand, although she still spoke with a 
firm voice ; “ the little world within me is like a 
garrison besieged by a thousand foes, whom nothing 
but the most determined resolution can keep from 
storming it on every hand, and at every moment. 
Were my situation one whit less perilous than it 
is — were I not sensible that my only chance to 
escape a fate more horrible than death, is to retain 
my recollection and self-possession — Gertrude, T 
would at this moment throw myself into your arms, 
and relieve my bursting bosom by such a transport 
of tears and agony of terror, as never rushed from a 
breaking heart ! ” 

“ Do not do so, lady ! ” said the sympathizing 
Fleming ; “ take courage, tell your beads, throw 
yourself on the care of Heaven ; and surely, if ever 
Heaven sent a deliverer to one ready to perish, that 
bold and adventurous young gentleman must be 
designed for yours. There is one, too,” she added, 
blushing deeply, “ in whom I have some interest. 
Say nothing to my father ; but I have ordered my 
bachelor, Hans Glover, to wait for you at the east- 
ern gate, and never to see my face more, unless he 
brings word that he has guided you safe from the 
territory.” 

To kiss her tenderly was the only way in which 
the young Countess could express her thanks to the 
frank and kind-hearted city-maiden, who returned 
the embrace affectionately, and added, with a smile, 
“ Nay, if two maidens and their devoted bachelors 
cannot succeed in a disguise and an escape, the 
world is changed from what I am told it wont 
to be.” 

A part of this speech again called the colour into 
the Countess’s pale cheeks, which was not lessened 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


95 


by Quentin’s sudden appearance. He entered com- 
pletely attired as a Flemish boor of the better class, 
in the holyday suit of Peter, who expressed his in- 
terest in the young Scot by the readiness with which 
he parted with it for his use ; and swore, at the 
same time, that, were he to be curried and tugged 
worse than ever was bullock’s hide, they should 
make nothing out of him, to the betraying of the 
young folks. Two stout horses had been provided 
by the activity of Mother Mabel, who really desired 
the Countess and her attendant no harm, so that 
she could make her own house and family clear of 
the dangers which might attend upon harbouring 
them. She beheld them mount and go off with 
great satisfaction, after telling them that they would 
find their way to the east gate by keeping their eye 
on Peter, who was to walk in that direction as their 
guide, but without holding any visible communica- 
tion with them. 

The instant her guests had departed, Mother 
Mabel took the opportunity to read a long practi- 
cal lecture to Trudchen upon the folly of reading 
romances, whereby the flaunting ladies of the Court 
were grown so bold and venturous, that, instead of 
applying to learn some honest housewifery, they 
must ride, forsooth, a damsel-erranting through the 
country, with no better attendant than some idle 
squire, debauched page, or rake-helly archer from 
foreign parts, to the great danger of their health, 
the impoverishing of their substance, and the irre- 
parable prejudice of their reputation. 

All this Gertrude heard in silence, and without 
reply; but, considering her character, it might be 
doubted whether she derived from it the practical in- 
ference which it was her mother’s purpose to enforce. 


9 6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Meantime, the travellers had gained the eastern 
gate of the city, traversing, crowds of people, who 
were fortunately too much busied in the political 
events and rumours of the hour, to give any atten- 
tion to a couple who had so little to render their 
appearance remarkable. They passed the guards 
in virtue of a permission obtained for them by 
Pavilion, but in the name of his colleague Rous- 
laer, and they took leave of Peter Geislaer with a 
friendly though brief exchange of good wishes on 
either side. Immediately afterwards, they were 
joined by a stout young man, riding a good grey 
horse, who presently made himself known as Hans 
Glover, the bachelor of Trudchen Pavilion. He 
was a young fellow with a good Flemish counte- 
nance — not, indeed, of the most intellectual cast, 
but arguing more hilarity and good-humour than 
wit, and, as the Countess could not help thinking, 
scarce worthy to be bachelor to the generous Trud- 
chen. He seemed, however, fully desirous to 
second the views which she had formed in their 
favour; for, saluting them respectfully, he asked 
of the Countess in Flemish, on which road she 
desired to be conducted ? 

“ Guide me,” said she, “ towards the nearest town 
on the frontiers of Brabant.” 

“You have then settled the end and object of 
your journey ?” said Quentin, approaching his horse 
to that of Isabelle, and speaking French, which 
their guide did not understand. 

“ Surely,” replied the young lady ; “ for, situ- 
ated as T now am, it must be of no small detriment 
to me if I were to prolong a journey in my present 
circumstance's, even though the termination should 
be a rigorous prison.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


97 


“ A prison ! ” said Quentin. 

“ Yes, my friend, a prison ; but I will take care 
that you shall not share it.” 

“ Do not talk — do not think of me,” said Quen- 
tin. “ Saw I you hut safe, my own concerns are 
little worth minding.” 

“ Do not speak so loud,” said the Lady Isabelle ; 
“ you will surprise our guide — you see he has al- 
ready rode on before us ; ” — for, in truth, the good- 
natured Fleming, doing as he desired to be done 
by, had removed from them the constraint of a 
third person, upon Quentin’s first motion towards 
the lady. — “ Yes,” she continued, when she noticed 
they were free from observation, “ to you, my friend, 
my protector — why should I be ashamed to call 
you what Heaven has made you to me ? — to you 
it is my duty to say, that my resolution is taken to 
return to my native country, and to throw myself 
on the mercy of the Duke of Burgundy. It was 
mistaken, though well-meant advice, which induced 
me ever to withdraw from his protection, and place 
myself under that of the crafty and false Louis of 
France.” 

“ And you resolve to become the bride, then, of 
the Count of Campo-basso, the unworthy favourite 
of Charles?” 

Thus spoke Quentin, with a voice in which in- 
ternal agony struggled with his desire to assume 
an indifferent tone, like that of the poor condemned 
criminal, when, affecting a firmness which he is 
far from feeling, he asks if the death-warrant be 
arrived. 

“ No, Durward, no,” said the Lady Isabelle, 
sitting up erect in her saddle, “ to that hated con- 
dition all Burgundy’s power shall not sink a 


98 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

daughter of the House of Croye. Burgundy may 
seize on my lands and fiefs, he may imprison my 
person in a convent ; but that is the worst I have 
to expect ; and worse than that I will endure ere I 
give my hand to Campo-basso.” 

“ The worst ! ” said Quentin ; “ and what worse 
can there be than plunder and imprisonment? — 
Oh, think, while you have God’s free air around 
you, and one by your side who will hazard life to 
conduct you to England, to Germany, even to Scot- 
land, in all of which you shall find generous pro- 
tectors — 0, while this is the case, do not resolve 
so rashly to abandon the means of liberty, the best 
gift that Heaven gives ! — 0, well sung a poet of 
my own land (a) 1 — 

‘Ah, freedom is a noble thing — 

Freedom makes man to have liking — 

Freedom the zest to pleasure gives — 

He lives at ease who freely lives. 

Grief, sickness, poortith, want, are all 
Summ’d up within the name of thrall/ ” 

She listened with a melancholy smile to her 
guide’s tirade in praise of liberty ; and then an- 
swered after a moment’s pause, “ Freedom is for 
man alone — woman must ever seek a protector, 
since nature made her incapable to defend herself. 
And where am I to find one ? — In that voluptuary 
Edward of England — in the inebriate^ Wenceslaus 
of Germany — in Scotland ? — Ah, Hurward, were 
I your sister, and could you promise me shelter in 
some of those mountain-glens which you love to 
describe, where, for charity, or for the few jewels 

1 See Editor’s Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a 
similar reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same 
direction applies. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


99 


I have preserved, I might lead an unharassed life, 
and forget the lot I was born to — Could you pro- 
mise me the protection of some honoured matron 
of the land — of some baron whose heart was as 
true as his sword — that were indeed a prospect, for 
which it were worth the risk of farther censure to 
wander farther and wider ! ” 

There was a faltering tenderness of voice with 
which the Countess Isabelle made this admission, 
that at once filled Quentin with a sensation of joy, 
and cut him to the very heart. He hesitated a 
moment ere he made an answer, hastily reviewing 
in his mind the possibility there might be that he 
could procure her shelter in Scotland ; but the mel- 
ancholy truth rushed on him, that it would be alike 
base and cruel to point out to her a course, which 
he had not the most distant power or means to ren- 
der safe. “ Lady,” he said at last, “ I should act 
foully against my honour and oath of chivalry, did 
I suffer you to ground any plan upon the thoughts 
that I have the power in Scotland to afford you 
other protection than that of the poor arm which 
is now by your side. I scarce know that my blood 
flows in the veins of an individual who now lives 
in my native land. The Knight of Innerquharity 
stormed our castle at midnight, and cut off all that 
belonged to my name. Were I again in Scotland, 
our feudal enemies are numerous and powerful, I 
single and weak ; and even had the King a desire 
to do me justice, he dared not, for the sake of re- 
dressing the wrongs of a poor individual, provoke a 
chief who rides with five hundred horse.” 

“ Alas ! ” said the Countess, “ there is then no 
corner of the world safe from oppression, since it 
rages as unrestrained amongst those wild hills 


IOO 


QUENTIN DUItWARD. 


which afford so few objects to covet, as in our rich 
and abundant Lowlands ! ” 

“It is a sad truth, and I dare not deny it,” said 
the Scot, “that, for little more than the pleasure 
of revenge and the lust of bloodshed, our hostile 
clans do the work of executioners on each other; 
and Ogilvies and the like act the same scenes in 
Scotland, as De la Marck and his robbers do in this 
country.” 

“No more of Scotland, then,” said Isabelle, with 
a tone of indifference, either real or affected — “ no 
more of Scotland, — which indeed I mentioned but 
in jest, to see if you really dared recommend to me, 
as a place of rest, the most distracted kingdom in 
Europe. It was but a trial of your sincerity, which 
I rejoice to see may be relied on, even when your 
partialities are most strongly excited. So, once 
more, I will think of no other protection than can 
be afforded by the first honourable baron holding of 
Duke Charles, to whom I am determined to render 
myself.” 

“And why not rather betake yourself to your 
own estates, and to your own strong castle, as you 
designed when at Tours ? ” said Quentin. “ Why 
not call around you the vassals of your father, and 
make treaty with Burgundy, rather than surrender 
yourself to him? Surely there must he many a 
bold heart that would fight in your cause ; and I 
know at least of one, who would willingly lay down 
his life to give example.” 

“Alas!” said the Countess, “that scheme, the 
suggestion of the crafty Louis, and, like all which 
he ever suggested, designed more for his advantage 
than for mine, has become impracticable, since it 
was betrayed to Burgundy by the double traitor 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


IOI 


Zamet Maugrabin. My kinsman was then impri- 
soned, and my houses garrisoned. Any attempt of 
mine would but expose my dependents to the ven- 
geance of Duke Charles ; and why should I occasion 
more bloodshed than has already taken place on so 
worthless an account? No, I will submit myself 
to my Sovereign as a dutiful vassal, in all which 
shall leave my personal freedom of choice unin- 
fringed ; the rather that I trust my kinswoman, 
the Countess Hameline, who first counselled, and 
indeed urged my flight, has already taken this wise 
and honourable step.” 

“Your kinswoman!” repeated Quentin, awakened 
to recollections to which the young Countess was a 
stranger, and which the rapid succession of perilous 
and stirring events, had, as matters of nearer con- 
cern, in fact banished from his memory. 

“ Ay — my aunt — the Countess Hameline of 
Croye — know you aught of her ? ” said the Coun- 
tess Isabelle ; “ I trust she is now under the protec- 
tion of the Burgundian banner. — You are silent! 
Know you aught of her?” 

The last question, urged in a tone of the most 
anxious enquiry, obliged Quentin to give some ac- 
count of what he knew of the Countess’s fate. He 
mentioned, that he had been summoned to attend 
her in a flight from Liege, which he had no doubt 
the Lady Isabelle would be partaker in — he men- 
tioned the discovery that had been made after they 
had gained the forest — and finally, he told his own 
return to the castle, and the circumstances in which 
he found it. But he said nothing of the views with 
which it was plain the Lady Hameline had left the 
Castle of Schonwaldt, arid as little about the float- 
ing report of her having fallen into the hands of 


102 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


William de la Marck. Delicacy prevented his even 
hinting at the one, and regard for the feelings of his 
companion, at a moment when strength and exer- 
tion were most demanded of her, prevented him 
from alluding to the latter, wdiich had, besides, only 
reached him as a mere rumour. 

This tale, though abridged of those important par- 
ticulars, made a strong impression on the Countess 
Isabelle, who, after riding some time in silence, said 
at last, with a tone of co-id displeasure, “And so you 
abandoned my unfortunate relative in a wild forest, 
at the mercy of a vile Bohemian and a traitorous 
waiting- woman? — Poor kinswoman, thou wert wont 
to praise this youth’s good faith ! ” 

“ Had I not done so, madam,” said Quentin, not- 
unreasonably offended at the turn thus given to 
his gallantry, “ what had been the fate of one to 
whose service I was far more devoutly bound ? 
Had I not left the Countess Hameline of Croye to 
the charge of those whom she had herself selected 
as counsellors and advisers, the Countess Isabelle 
had been ere now the bride of William de la Marck, 
the Wild Boar of Ardennes.” 

“ You are right,” said the Countess Isabelle, in 
her usual manner ; “ and I, who have the advantage 
of your unhesitating devotion, have done you foul 
and ungrateful wrong. But oh, my unhappy kins- 
woman ! and the wretch Marthon, who enjoyed so 
much of her confidence, and deserved it so little — 
it was she that introduced to my kinswoman the 
wretched Zamet and Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, 
by their pretended knowledge in soothsaying and 
astrology, obtained a great ascendency over her 
mind; it was she who, strengthening their predic- 
tions, encouraged her in — I know not what to call 


QUENTIN DU If WARD. 


103 


them — delusions concerning matches and lovers, 
which my kinswoman’s age rendered ungraceful 
and improbable. I doubt not that, from the begin- 
ning, we had been surrounded by these snares by 
Louis of France, in order to determine us to take 
refuge at his Court, or rather to put ourselves into 
his power ; after which rash act on our part, how 
unkingly, unknightly, ignobly, ungentlemanlike, he 
hath conducted himself towards us, you, Quentin 
Durward, can bear witness. But alas ! my kins- 
woman — what think you will be her fate ? ” 

Endeavouring to inspire hopes which he scarce 
felt, Durward answered, that the avarice of these 
people was stronger than any other passion ; that 
Marthon, even when he left them, seemed to act 
rather as the Lady Hameline’s protectress ; and, in 
fine, that it was difficult to conceive any object these 
wretches could accomplish by the ill usage or murder 
of the Countess, whereas they might be gainers by 
treating her well, and putting her to ransom. 

To lead the Countess Isabelle’s thoughts from 
this melancholy subject, Quentin frankly told her 
the treachery of the Maugrabin, which he had dis- 
covered in the night-quarter near Namur, and which 
appeared the result of an agreement betwixt the 
King and William de la Marck. Isabelle shud- 
dered with horror, and then recovering herself, 
said, “ I am ashamed, and I have sinned in permit- 
ting myself so far to doubt of the saints’ protection, 
as for an instant to have deemed possible the ac- 
complishment of a scheme so utterly cruel, base, 
and dishonourable, while there are pitying eyes in 
Heaven to look down on human miseries. It is not 
a thing to be thought of with fear or abhorrence, 
but to be rejected as such a piece of incredible 


104 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


treachery and villainy, as it were atheism to believe 
could ever be successful. But I now see plainly 
why that hypocritical Martlion often seemed to 
foster every seed of petty jealousy or discontent 
betwixt my poor kinswoman and myself, whilst she 
always mixed with flattery, addressed to the indi- 
vidual who was present, whatever could prejudice 
her against her absent kinswoman. Yet never did 
I dream she could have proceeded so far as to have 
caused my once affectionate kinswoman to have left 
me behind in the perils of Schonwaldt, while she 
made her own escape.” 

“ Did the Lady Hameline not mention to you, 
then,” said Quentin, “ her intended flight ? ” 

“ No,” replied the Countess, “ but she alluded to 
some communication which Marthon was to make 
to me. To say truth, my poor kinswoman’s head 
was so turned by the mysterious jargon of the 
miserable Hayraddin, whom that day she had ad- 
mitted to a long and secret conference, and she 
threw out so many strange hints, that — that — in 
short, I cared not to press on her, when in that 
humour, for any explanation. Yet it was cruel to 
leave me behind her.” 

“ I will excuse the Lady Hameline from intend- 
ing such unkindness,” said Quentin ; “ for such was 
the agitation of the moment, and the darkness of 
the hour, that I believe the Lady Hameline as 
certainly conceived herself accompanied by her 
niece, as I at the same time, deceived by Marthon's 
dress and demeanour, supposed I was in the com- 
pany of both the Ladies of Croye : — and of her 
especially,” lie added, with a low but determined 
voice, “ without whom the wealth of worlds would 
not have tempted me to leave Schonwaldt.” 


QUENTIN DUKWARD. 


i°5 

Isabelle stooped her head forward, and seemed 
scarce to hear the emphasis with which Quentin 
had spoken. But she turned her face to him again 
when he began to speak of the policy of Louis ; 
and it was not difficult for them, by mutual com- 
munication, to ascertain that the Bohemian brothers, 
with their accomplice Marthon, had been the agents 
of that crafty monarch, although Zamet, the elder 
of them, with a perfidy peculiar to his race, had 
attempted to play a double game, and had been 
punished accordingly. In the same humour of 
mutual confidence, and forgetting the singularity 
of their own situation, as well as the perils of the 
road, the travellers pursued their journey for several 
hours, only stopping to refresh their horses at a 
retired dorff, or hamlet, to which they were con- 
ducted by Hans Glover, who, in all other respects, 
as well as in leaving them much to their own free- 
dom in conversation, conducted himself like a per- 
son of reflection and discretion. 

Meantime, the artificial distinction which divided 
the two lovers, (for such we may now term them,) 
seemed dissolved, or removed, by the circumstances 
in which they were placed ; for if the Countess 
boasted the higher rank, and was by birth entitled 
to a fortune incalculably larger than that of the 
youth, whose revenue lay in his sword, it was to be 
considered that, for the present, she was as poor as 
he, and for her safety, honour, and life, exclusively 
indebted to his presence of mind, valour, and devo- 
tion. They spoke not indeed of love, for though the 
young lady, her heart full of gratitude and confi- 
dence, might have pardoned such a declaration, yet 
Quentin, on whose tongue there was laid a check, 
both by natural timidity and by the sentiments of 


io6 QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 

Chivalry, would have held it an unworthy abuse of 
her situation had he said any thing which could 
have the appearance of taking undue advantage of 
the opportunities which it afforded them. They 
spoke not then of love, but the thoughts of it were 
on both sides unavoidable ; and thus they were 
placed in that relation to each other, in which sen- 
timents of mutual regard are rather understood than 
announced, and which,- with the freedoms which it 
permits, and the uncertainties that attend it, often 
forms the most delightful hours of human existence, 
and as frequently leads to those which are darkened 
by disappointment, fickleness, and all the pains of 
blighted hope and unrequited attachment. 

It was two hours after noon, when the travellers 
were alarmed by the report of the guide, who, with 
paleness and horror in his countenance, said that 
they were pursued by a party of De la Marck’s 
Schwarz-reiters. These soldiers, or rather banditti, 
were bands levied in the Lower Circles of Germany, 
and resembled the lanzknechts in every particular, 
except that the former acted as light cavalry. To 
maintain the name of Black Troopers, and to strike 
additional terror into their enemies, they usually 
rode on black chargers, and smeared with black 
ointment their arms and accoutrements, in which 
operation their hands and faces often had their 
share. In morals and in ferocity these Schwarz- 
reiters emulated their pedestrian brethren the 
lanzknechts . 1 

On looking back, and discovering along the long 
level road which they had traversed a cloud of dust 
advancing, with one or two of the headmost troop- 
ers riding furiously in front of it, Quentin addressed 
1 Note II. — Schwarz-reiters. 


QUENTIN DURWARD 


107 


his companion — “ Dearest Isabelle, I have no 
weapon left save my sword ; but since I cannot 
fight for you, I will fly with you. Could we gain 
yonder wood that is before us ere they come up, we 
may easily find means to escape.” 

“ So be it, my only friend,” said Isabelle, press- 
ing her horse to the gallop ; “ and thou, good fel- 
low,” she added, addressing Hans Glover, “get thee 
off to another road, and do not stay to partake our 
misfortune and danger.” 

The honest Fleming shook his head, and answered 
her generous exhortation, with Nein, nein ! das geht 
nichts , 1 and continued to attend them, all three 
riding towards the shelter of the wood as fast as 
their jaded horses could go, pursued, at the same 
time, by the Schwarz-reiters, who increased their 
pace when they saw them fly. But notwithstand- 
ing the fatigue of the horses, still the fugitives, 
being unarmed, and riding lighter in consequence, 
had considerably the advantage of the pursuers, 
and were within about a quarter of a mile of the 
wood, when a body of men-at-arms, under a knight’s 
pennon, was discovered advancing from the cover, 
so as to intercept their flight. 

“ They have bright armour,” said Isabelle ; “ they 
must be Burgundians. Be they who they will,* we 
must yield to them, rather than to the lawless mis- 
creants who pursue us.” 

A moment after, she exclaimed, looking on the 
pennon, “I know the cloven heart which it dis- 
plays ! It is the banner of the Count of Crhvecoeur, a 
noble Burgundian — to him I will surrender myself.” 

Quentin Durward sighed ; but what other alter- 
native remained? and how happy would he have 
1 “ No, no ! that must not be-” 


t 


io8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


been but an instant before, to have been certain of 
the escape of Isabelle, even under worse terms ? 
They soon joined the band of Crkvecoeur, and the 
Countess demanded to speak to the leader, who had 
halted his party till he should reconnoitre the Black 
Troopers ; and as he gazed on her with doubt and 
uncertainty, she said, “ Noble Count, — Isabelle of 
Croye, the daughter of your old companion in arms, 
Count Reinold of Croye, renders herself, and asks 
protection from your valour for her and hers.” 

“ Thou shalt have it, fair kinswoman, were it 
against a host — always excepting my liege Lord 
of Burgundy. But there is little time to talk of it. 
These filthy-looking fiends have made a halt, as if 
they intended to dispute the matter. — By Saint 
George of Burgundy, they have the insolence to 
advance against the banner of Crkvecoeur ! — What ! 
will not the knaves be ruled ? — Damian, my lance 
— Advance banner — Lay your spears in the rest — 
Crkvecceur to the Rescue ! ” 

Crying his war-cry, and followed by his men-at- 
arms, he galloped rapidly forward to charge the 
Schwarz-reiters. 




CHAPTER VII. 


THE SURRENDER. 

Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive ; 

Deal with me what your nobleness suggests — 

Thinking the chance of war may one day place you 
Where I must now be reckon’d — i’ the roll 4 

Of melancholy prisoners. 

Anonymous. 

The skirmish betwixt the Schwarz-reiters and 
the Burgundian men-at-arms lasted scarcely five 
minutes, so soon were the former put to the rout 
by the superiority of the latter, in armour, weight 
of horse, and military spirit. In less than the 
space we have mentioned, the Count of Crkvecoeur, 
wiping his bloody sword upon his horse’s mane ere 
he sheathed it, came back to the verge of the forest, 
where Isabelle had remained a spectator of the com- 
bat. One part of his people followed him, while 
the other continued to pursue the flying enemy for 
a little space along the causeway. 

“ It is shame,” said the Count, “ that the weapons 
of knights and gentlemen should be soiled by the 
blood of those brutal swine.” 

So saying, he returned his weapon to the sheath, 
and added, “ This is a rough welcome to your 
home, my pretty cousin, but wandering princesses 
must expect such adventures. And well I came up 
in time, for, let me assure you, the Black Troopers 
respect a countess’s coronet as little as a country* 


no 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


wench’s coif, and I think your retinue is not quali- 
fied for much resistance.” 

“ My Lord Count,” said the Lady Isabelle. 
“ without farther preface, let me know if I am a 
prisoner, and where you are to conduct me.” 

“ You know, you silly child,” answered the 
Count, '‘how I would answer that question, did 
it rest on my own will. But you and your foolish 
match-making, marriage -hunting aunt, have made 
such wild use of your wings of late, that I fear you 
must be contented to fold them up in a cage for a 
little while. For my part, my duty, and it is a 
sad one, will be ended when I have conducted you 
to the Court of the Duke, at Peronne ; for which 
purpose, I hold it necessary to deliver the com- 
mand of this reconnoitring party to my nephew, 
Count Stephen, while I return with you thither, 
as I think you may need an intercessor — And I 
hope the young giddy-pate will discharge his duty 
wisely.” 

“ So please you, fair uncle,” said Count Stephen, 
“ if you doubt my capacity to conduct the men-at- 
arms, even remain with them yourself, and I will 
be the servant and guard of the Countess Isabelle 
of Croye.” 

“ No doubt, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, 
“ this were a goodly improvement on my scheme ; 
but methinks I like it as well in the way I planned 
it. Please you, therefore, to take notice, that your 
business here is not to hunt after and stick these 
black hogs, for which you seemed but now to have 
felt an especial vocation, but to collect and bring 
to me true tidings what is going forward in the 
country of Liege, concerning which we hear such 
wild rumours. Let some half score of lances follow 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. hi 

me, and the rest remain with my banner, under 
youi guidance.” 

“ Yet one moment, cousin of Crfcvecoeur,” said 
the Countess Isabelle, “ and let me, in yielding 
myself prisoner, stipulate at least for the safety of 
those who have befriended me in my misfortunes. 
Permit this good fellow, my trusty guide, to go 
back unharmed to his native town of Liege.” 

“ My nephew,” said Crbveeoeur, after looking 
sharply at Glover’s honest breadth of countenance, 
“ shall guard this good fellow, who seems, indeed, 
to have little harm in him, as far into the terri- 
tory as he himself advances, and then leave him at 
liberty.” 

“ Fail not to remember me to the kind Gertrude,” 
said the Countess to her guide, and added, taking 
a string of pearls from under her veil, “ Pray her to 
wear this in remembrance of her unhappy friend.” 

Honest Glover took the string of pearls, and 
kissed, with clownish gesture, but with sincere 
kindness, the fair hand which had found such a 
delicate mode of remunerating his own labours and 
peril. 

“Umph! signs and tokens!” said the Count; 
“ any farther bequests to make, my fair cousin ? — 
It is time we were on our way.” 

“ Only,” said the Countess, making an effort to 
speak, “ that you will be pleased to be favourable 
to this — this young gentleman.” 

“ Umph ! ” said Crbvecoeur, casting the same 
penetrating glance on Quentin which he had be- 
stowed on Glover, but apparently with a much less 
satisfactory result, and mimicking, though not offen- 
sively, the embarrassment of the Countess — • 
Umph ! — Ay, — this is a blade of another temper. 


1 12 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

— And pray, my cousin, what has this — this very 
young gentleman done, to deserve such intercession 
at your hands ? ” 

“ He has saved my life and honour,” said the 
Countess, reddening with shame and resentment. 

Quentin also blushed with indignation, hut wisely 
concluded, that to give vent to it might only make 
matters worse. 

“Life and honour? — Umph!” said again the 
Count Crevecoeur ; “ methinks it would have been 
as well, my cousin, if you had not put yourself in 
the way of lying under such obligations to this very 
young gentleman. — But let it pass. The young 
gentleman may wait on us, if his quality permit, 
and I will see he has no injury — only I will myself 
take in future the office of protecting your life and 
honour, and may perhaps find for him some fitter 
duty than that of being a squire of the body to 
damosels errant.” 

“ My Lord Count,” said Durward, unable to 
keep silence any longer, “ lest you should talk of a 
stranger in slighter terms than you might after- 
wards think becoming, I take leave to tell you, that 
I am Quentin Durward, an Archer of the Scottish 
Body-guard, in which, as you well know, none but 
gentlemen and men of honour are enrolled.” 

“ I thank you for your information, and I kiss 
your hands, Seignior Archer,” said Crevecoeur, in the 
same tone of raillery. “ Have the goodness to ride 
with me to the front of the party.” 

As Quentin moved onward at the command of 
the Count, who had now the power, if not the right, 
to dictate his motions, he observed that the Lady 
Isabelle followed his motions with a look of anxious 
and timid interest, which amounted almost to ten- 


QUENTIN DUE WARD. 


ii3 

derness, and the sight of which brought water into 
his eyes. But he remembered that he had a man’s 
part to sustain before Crkvecceur, who, perhaps of 
all the chivalry in France or Burgundy, was the 
least’ likely to be moved to any thing but laughter 
by a tale of true-love sorrow. He determined, 
therefore, not to wait his addressing him, but to 
open the conversation in a tone which should assert 
his claim to fair treatment, and to more respect 
than the Count, offended perhaps at finding a per- 
son of such inferior note placed so near the confi- 
dence of his high-born and wealthy cousin, seemed 
disposed to entertain for him. 

“My Lord Count of Crbvecceur,” he said, in a 
temperate but firm tone of voice, “ may I request 
of you, before our interview goes farther, to tell me 
if Lam at liberty, or am to account myself your 
prisoner ? ” 

“ A shrewd question,” replied the Count, “ which, 
at present, I can only answer by another — Are 
France and Burgundy, think you, at peace or war 
with each other?” 

“ That,” replied the Scot, “ you, my lord, should 
certainly know better than I. I have been absent 
from the Court of France, and have heard no news 
for some time.” 

“ Look you there,” said the Count ; “ you see 
how easy it is to ask questions, but how difficult to 
answer them. Why, I myself, who have been at 
Peronne with the Duke for this week and better, 
cannot resolve this riddle any more than you ; and 
yet, Sir Squire, upon the solution of that question 
depends the said point, whether you are prisoner or 
free man ; and, for the present, I must hold you as 
the former — Only, if you have really and honestly 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


1 14 

been of service to my kinswoman, and if you are 
candid in your answers to the questions I shall ask, 
affairs shall stand the better with you.” 

“ The Countess of Croye” said Quentin, “ is best 
judge if I have rendered any service, and to her 
I refer you on that matter. M3 7 " answers you 
will yourself judge of when you 'ask me your 
questions.” 

“Umph ! — haughty enough,” muttered the Count 
of Crkvecoeur, “ and very like one that wears a 
lady’s favour in his hat, and thinks he must carry 
things with a high tone, to honour the precious 
remnant of silk and tinsel. — Well, sir, I trust it 
will be no abatement of your dignity, if you answer 
me, how long } 7 ou have been about the person of 
the Lady Isabelle of Croye ? ” 

“Count of Crkvecoeur,” said Quentin Durward, 
“ if I answer questions which are asked in a tone 
approaching towards insult, it is only lest injurious 
inferences should be drawn from my silence respect- 
ing one to whom we are both obliged to render 
justice. I have acted as escort to the Lady Isabelle 
since she left France to retire into Flanders.” 

“ Ho ! I10 !” said the Count ; “ and that is to say, 
since she fled from Plessis-les-Tours ? — You, an 
Archer of the Scottish Guard, accompanied her, of 
course, by the express orders of King Louis ? ” 

However little Quentin thought himself indebted 
to the King of France, who, in contriving the sur- 
prisal of the Countess Isabelle by William de la 
Marck, had probably calculated on the young 
Scotchman being slain in her defence, he did not 
yet conceive himself at liberty to betray any trust 
which Louis had reposed, or had seemed to repose 
in him, and therefore replied to Count Crkvecoeur’s 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


ii5 

inference, “ that it w&s sufficient for him to have 
the authority of his superior officer for what he had 
done, and he enquired no farther.” 

“ It is quite sufficient,” said the Count. “ We 
know the King does not permit his officers to send 
the Archers of his Guard to prance like paladins 
by the bridle-rein of wandering ladies, unless he 
hath some politic purpose to serve. It will be diffi- 
cult for King Louis to continue to aver so boldly, 
that he knew not of the Ladies of Croye’s having 
escaped from France, since they were escorted by 
one of his own Life-guard. — And whither, Sir 
Archer, was your retreat directed ?” 

“ To Liege, my lord,” answered the Scot ; “ where 
the ladies desired to be placed under the protection 
of the late Bishop.” 

“The late Bishop!” exclaimed the Count of 
Crevecceur; “is Louis of Bourbon dead? — Not a 
word of his illness had reached the Duke — Of what 
did he die ? ” 

“ He sleeps in a bloody grave, my lord — that 

is, if his murderers have conferred one on his 
remains.” 

“ Murdered ! ” exclaimed Crevecceur again — 
“ Holy Mother of Heaven ! — young man, it is 
impossible ! ” 

“I saw the deed done with my own eyes, and 
many an act of horror besides.” 

“ Saw it ! and made not in to help the good 
Prelate ! ” exclaimed the Count, “ or to raise the 
castle ^gainst his murderers ? — Know’st thou not, 
that even to look on such a deed, without resisting 

it, is profane sacrilege ? ” 

“ To be brief, my lord,” said Durward, “ ere 
this act was done, the castle was stormed by the 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


116 

blood-thirsty William de la Marck, with help of 
the insurgent Liegeois.” 

“ I am struck with thunder ! ” said Crbvecceur. 
“ Liege in insurrection ! — Schonwaldt taken ! — the 
Bishop murdered ! — Messenger of sorrow, never 
did one man unfold such a packet of woes ! — 
Speak — knew you of this assault — of this insur- 
rection — of this murder ? — Speak — thou art one 
of Louis’s trusted Archers, and it is he that has 
aimed this painful arrow. — Speak, or I will have 
thee torn with wild horses ! ” 

“And if I am so torn, my lord, there can be 
nothing rent out of me, that may not become a 
true Scottish gentleman. I know no more of these 
villainies than you, — was so far from being par- 
taker in them, that I would have withstood them 
to the uttermost, had my means, in a twentieth 
degree, equalled my inclination. But what could I 
do ? — they were hundreds, and I but one. My 
only care was to rescue the Countess Isabelle, and 
in that I was happily successful. Yet, had I been 
near enough when the ruffian deed was so cruelly 
done on the old man, I had saved his grey hairs, 
or I had avenged them ; and as it was, my abhor- 
rence was spoken loud enough to prevent other 
horrors.” 

“ I believe thee, youth,” said the Count ; “ thou 
art neither of an age nor nature to be trusted with 
such bloody work, however well fitted to be the 
squire of dames. But alas ! for the kind and gen- 
erous Prelate, to be murdered on the hearth where 
he so often entertained the stranger with Christian 
charity and princely bounty — and that by a wretch, 
a monster ! a portentous growth of blood and 
cruelty ! — bred up in the very hall where he has 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


117 


imbrued his hands in his benefactor’s blood! But 
I know not Charles of Burgundy — nay, I should 
doubt of the justice of Heaven, if vengeance be not 
as sharp, and sudden, and severe, as this villainy has 
been unexampled in atrocity. And, if no other 
shall • pursue the murderer,” — here he paused, 
grasped his sword, then quitting his bridle, struck 
both gauntleted hands upon his breast, until his 
corslet clattered, and finally held them up to Heaven, 
as he solemnly continued — “I — I, Philip Crkve- 
coeur of Cordis, make £ vow to God, Saint Lambert, 
and the Three Kings of Cologne, that small shall be 
my thought of other earthly concerns, till I take 
full revenge on the murderers of the good Louis of 
Bourbon, whether I find them in forest or field, in 
city or in country, in hill or plain, in King’s court, 
or in God’s church ! and thereto I pledge lands and 
living, friends and followers, life and honour. So 
help me God and Saint Lambert of Liege, and the 
Three Kings of Cologne ! ” 

When the Count of Cr&vecoeur had made his 
vow, his mind seemed in some sort relieved from 
the overwhelming grief and astonishment with 
which he had heard the fatal tragedy that had been 
acted at Schonwaldt, and he proceeded to question 
Durward more minutely concerning the particulars 
of that disastrous affair, which the Scot, nowise 
desirous to abate the spirit of revenge which the 
Count entertained against William de la Marck, 
gave him at full length. 

“ But those blind, unsteady, faithless, fickle 
beasts, the Liegeois,” said the Count, “ that they 
should have combined themselves with this inexor- 
able robber and murderer, to put to death their 
lawful Prince!” 


ii8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Durward here informed the enraged Burgundian 
that the Liegeois, or at least the better class of them, 
however rashly they had run into the rebellion 
against their Bishop, had no design, so far as 
appeared to him, to aid in the execrable deed of 
De la March ; but, on the contrary, would have 
prevented it if they had had the means, and were 
struck with horror when they beheld it. 

“ Speak not of the faithless, inconstant, plebeian 
rabble ! ” said Crbvecceur. “ When they took arms 
against a Prince, who had no fault, save that he 
was too kind and too good a master for such a set 
of ungrateful slaves — when they armed against 
him, and broke into his peaceful house, what could 
there be in their intention but murder ? — when 
they banded themselves with the wild Boar of 
Ardennes, the greatest homicide in the marches 
of Flanders, what else could there be in their pur- 
pose lut murder, which is the very trade he lives 
by ? And again, was it not one of their own vile 
rabble who did the very deed, by thine own account? 
— I hope to see their canals running blood by the’ 
light of their burning houses. Oh, the kind, noble, 
generous lord, whom they have slaughtered ! — Other 
vassals have rebelled under the pressure of imposts 
and penury ; but the men of Liege, in the fulness of 
insolence and plenty.” — He again abandoned the 
reins of his war-horse, and wrung bitterly the 
hands, which his mail-gloves rendered untractable. 
Quentin easily saw that the grief which he mani- 
fested was augmented by the bitter recollection of 
past intercourse and friendship with the sufferer, 
and was silent accordingly ; respecting feelings 
which he was unwilling to aggravate, and at the 
same time felt it impossible to soothe. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


119 

But the Count of Crbvecceur returned again and 
again to the subject — questioned him on every 
particular of the surprise of Schonwaldt, and the 
death of the Bishop ; and then suddenly, as if he 
had recollected something which had escaped his 
memory, demanded what had become of the Lady 
Hameline, and why she was not with her kins- 
woman ? “ Not,” he added contemptuously, “ that 
I ’ consider her absence as at all a loss to the 
Countess Isabelle ; for, although she was her kins- 
woman, and upon the whole a well-meaning woman, 
yet the Court of Cocagne never produced such a 
fantastic fool ; and I hold it for certain, that her niece, 
whom I have always observed to be a modest and 
orderly young woman, was led into the absurd frolic 
of flying from Burgundy to France, by that blunder- 
ing, romantic, old, match-making and match-seeking 
idiot ! ” 

What a speech for a romantic lover to hear! and 
to hear, too, when it would have been ridiculous in 
him to attempt what it was impossible for him to 
achieve, — namely, to convince the Couijt, by force 
of arms, that he did foul wrong to the Countess — 
the peerless in sense as in beauty — in terming her 
a modest and orderly young woman ; qualities which 
might have been predicated with propriety of the 
daughter of a sunburnt peasant, who lived by goad- 
ing the oxen, while her father held the plough. 
And, then, to suppose her under the domination 
and supreme guidance of a silly and romantic aunt 
— the slander should have been repelled down the 
slanderer’s throat. But the open, though severe, 
physiognomy of the Count of Crbvecceur, the total 
contempt which he seemed to entertain for those 
feelings which were uppermost in Quentin’s bosom, 


120 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


overawed him ; not for fear of the Count’s fame in 
arms — that was a risk which would have increased 
his desire of making out a challenge — but in dread 
of ridicule, the weapon of all others most feared by 
enthusiasts of every description, and which, from 
its predominance over such minds, often checks, 
what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that 
wUich is noble. 

Under the influence of this fear, of becoming an 
object of scorn rather than resentment, Durward, 
though with some pain, confined his reply to a con- 
fused account of the Lady Hameline having made 
her escape from Schonwaldt before the attack took 
place. He could not, indeed, have made his story 
very distinct, without throwing ridicule on the near 
relation of Isabelle, and perhaps incurring some 
himself, as having been the object of her preposte- 
rous expectations. He added to his embarrassed 
detail, that he had heard a report, though a vague 
one, of the Lady Hameline having again fallen into 
the hands of William de la Marck. 

“ I trust in Saint Lambert that he will marry 
her,” said Crevecoeur; “as, indeed, he is likely 
enough to do, for the sake of her money-bags ; and 
equally likely to knock her on the head, so soon 
as these are either secured in his own grasp, or, at 
farthest, emptied.” 

The Count then proceeded to ask so many ques- 
tions concerning the mode in which both ladies had 
conducted themselves on the journey, the degree 
of intimacy to which they admitted Quentin him- 
self, and other trying particulars, that, vexed and 
ashamed and angry, the youth was scarce able to 
conceal his embarrassment from the keen-sighted 
soldier and courtier, who seemed suddenly disposed 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


I 2 1 


to take leave of him, saying, at the same time, 
! ‘ Umph — I see it is as I conjectured, on one side 
at least ; I trust the other party has kept her senses 
better. — Come, Sir Squire, spur on, and keep the 
van, while I fall back to discourse with the Lady 
Isabelle. I think I have learned now so much from 
you, that I can talk to her of these sad passages 
without hurting her nicety, though I have fretted 
yours a little. — Yet stay, young gallant — one word 
ere you go. You have had, I imagine, a happy 
journey through Fairy -land — all full of heroic ad- 
venture, and high hope and wild minstrel-like delu- 
sion, like the gardens of Morgaine la Fde. Forget 
it all, young soldier,” he added, tapping him on the 
shoulder ; “ remember yonder lady only as the 
honoured Countess of Croye — forget her as a wan- 
dering and adventurous damsel : And her friends 
— one of them I can answer for — will remember, 
on their part, only the services you have done her, 
and forget the unreasonable reward which you have 
had the boldness to propose to yourself.” 

Enraged that he had been unable to conceal from 
the sharp-sighted Cr&vecoeur feelings which the 
Count seemed to consider as the object of ridicule, 
Quentin replied, indignantly, “ My Lord Count, 
when I require advice of you, I will ask it ; when 
I demand assistance of you, it will be time enough 
to grant or refuse it; when I set peculiar value 
on your opinion of me, it will not be too late to 
express it.” 

“ Heyday ! ” said the Count ; “ I have come be- 
tween Amadis and Oriana, and must expect a chal- 
lenge to the lists ! ” 

“You speak as if that were an impossibility /’ 
said Quentin — “ When I broke a lance with the 


22 


QUENTIN DU R WARD 


Duke of Orleans, it was against a breast in which 
flowed better blood than that of Crevecoeur — When 
I measured swords with Dunois, I engaged a better 
warrior/’ 

“ Now Heaven nourish thy judgment, gentle 
youth ! ” said Crevecoeur, still laughing at the chi- 
valrous inamorato. “ If thou speak’st truth, thou 
hast had singular luck in this world ; and, truly, if 
it be the pleasure of Providence exposes thee to 
such trials, without a beard on thy lip, thou wilt 
be mad with vanity ere thou writest thyself man. 
Thou canst not move me to anger, though thou 
mayst to mirth. Believe me, though thou mayst 
have fought with Princes, and played the champion 
for Countesses, by some of those freaks which For- 
tune will sometimes exhibit, thou art by no means 
the equal of those of whom thou hast been either 
the casual opponent, or more casual companion. I 
can allow thee, like a youth who hath listened to 
romances till he fancied himself a Paladin, to form 
pretty dreams for Some time ; but thou must not be 
angry at a well-meaning friend, though he shake thee 
something roughly by the shoulders to awake thee.” 

“My Lord of Crevecoeur,” said Quentin, “my 
family ” 

“ Nay, it was not utterly of family that I spoke,” 
said the Count ; “ but of rank, fortune, high station, 
and so forth, which place a distance between vari- 
ous degrees and classes of persons. As for birth, 
all men are descended from Adam and Eve.” 

“ My Lord Count,” repeated Quentin, “my ances- 
tors, the Durwards of Glen-houlakin ” 

“ Nay,” said the Count, “ if you claim a farther 
descent for them than from Adam, I have done ! 
Good-even to you.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


123 


He reined back his horse, and paused to join the 
Countess, to whom, if possible, his insinuations and 
advices, however well meant, were still more dis- 
agreeable than to Quentin, who, as he rode on, 
muttered to himself, “ Cold-blooded, insolent, over- 
weening coxcomb! — Would that the next Scottish 
Archer who has his harquebuss pointed at thee, may 
not let thee off so easily as I did ! ” 

In the evening they reached the town of Charleroi, 
on the Sarnbre, where the Count of Crbvecoeur had 
determined to leave the Countess Isabelle, whom the 
terror and fatigue of yesterday, joined to a flight of 
fifty miles since morning, and the various distressing 
sensations by which it was accompanied, had made 
incapable of travelling farther, with safety to her 
health. The Count consigned her, in a state of 
great exhaustion, to the care of the Abbess of the 
Cistercian convent in Charleroi, a noble lady, to 
whom both the families of Crbvecoeur and Croye 
were related, and in whose prudence and kindness 
he could repose confidence. 

Crbvecoeur himself only stopped to recommend 
the utmost caution to the governor of a small Bur- 
gundian garrison who occupied the place, and re- 
quired him also to mount a guard of honour upon 
the convent during the residence of the Countess 
Isabelle of Croye, — ostensibly to secure her safety, 
but perhaps secretly to prevent her attempting to 
escape. The Count only assigned as a cause for 
the garrison being vigilant, some vague rumours 
which he had heard of disturbances in the Bishopric 
of Liege. But he was determined himself to be the 
first who should carry the formidable news of the 
insurrection and the murder of the Bishop, in all 
their horrible reality, to Duke Charles ; and for 


124 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


that purpose, having procured fresh horses for him- 
self and suite, he mounted with the resolution of 
continuing his journey to Peronne without stopping 
for repose ; and informing Quentin Durward that 
he must attend him, he made, at the same time, a 
mock apology for parting fair company, but hoped, 
that to so devoted a squire of dames a night’s jour- 
ney by moonshine would be more agreeable, than 
supinely to yield himself to slumber like an ordi- 
nary mortal. 

Quentin, already sufficiently afflicted by finding 
that he was to be parted from Isabelle, longed to 
answer this taunt with an indignant defiance ; but 
aware that the Count would only laugh at his anger, 
and despise his challenge, he resolved to wait some 
future time, when he might have an opportunity of 
obtaining some amends from this proud lord, who, 
though for very different reasons, had become nearly 
as odious to him as the Wild Boar of Ardennes him- 
self. He therefore assented to Crkvecceur’s pro- 
posal, as to what he had no choice of declining, and 
they pursued in company, and with all the dispatch 
they could exert, the road between Charleroi and 
Peronne. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. 


No human quality is so well wove 

In warp and woof, but there’s some flaw in 'it. 

I’ve known a brave man fly a shepherd’s cur, 

A wise man so demean him, drivelling idiocy 
Had wellnigh been ashamed on’t. For your crafty, 

Your worldly-wise man, he, above the rest, 

Weaves his own snares so fine, he’s often caught in them. 

Old Play. 


Quentin, during the earlier part of the night-journey, 
had to combat with that bitter heart-ache, which is 
felt when youth parts, and probably for ever, with 
her he loves. As, pressed by the urgency of the 
moment, and the impatience of Crkvecoeur, they 
hasted on through the rich lowlands of Hainault, 
under the benign guidance of a rich and lustrous 
harvest-moon, she shed her yellow influence over 
rich and deep pastures, woodland, and corn fields, 
from which the husbandmen were using her light 
to withdraw the grain, such was the industry of the 
Flemings, even at that period ; she shone on broad, 
level, and fructifying rivers, where glided the white 
sail in the service of commerce, uninterrupted by 
rock or torrent, beside lovely quiet villages, whose 
external decency and cleanliness expressed the ease 
and comfort of the inhabitants; — she gleamed upon 
the feudal castle of many a gallant Baron and Knight, 


126 


QUENTIN DU It WARD. 


with its deep moat, battlemented court, and high 
belfry, — for the chivalry of Hainault was renowned 
among the nobles of Europe ; — and her light dis- 
played at a distance, in its broad beam, the gigantic 
towers of more than one lofty minster. 

Yet all this fair variety, however differing from 
the waste and wilderness of his own land, inter- 
rupted not the course of Quentin’s regrets and 
sorrows. He had left his heart behind him, when 
he departed from Charleroi ; and the only reflection 
which the farther journey inspired was, that every 
step was carrying him farther from Isabelle. His 
imagination was taxed to recall every word she had 
spoken, every look she had directed towards him ; 
and, as happens frequently in such cases, the im- 
pression made upon his imagination by the recol- 
lection of these particulars, was even stronger than 
the realities themselves had excited. 

At length, after the cold hour of midnight was 
past, in spite alike of love and of sorrow, the ex- 
treme fatigue which Quentin had undergone the 
two preceding days began to have an effect on him, 
which his habits of exercise of every kind, and his 
singular alertness and activity df character, as well 
as the painful nature of the reflections which occu- 
pied his thoughts, had hitherto prevented his ex- 
periencing. The ideas of his mind began to be so 
little corrected by the exertions of his senses, worn- 
out and deadened as the latter now were by 
extremity of fatigue, that the visions which the 
former drew superseded or perverted the informa- 
tion conveyed by the blunted organs of seeing and 
hearing ; and Durward was only sensible that he 
was awake, by 'the exertions which, sensible of the 
peril of his situation, he occasionally made, to resist 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


127 


falling into a deep and dead sleep. Every now and 
then, a strong consciousness of the risk of falling 
from or with his horse roused him to exertion and 
animation ; but ere long his eyes again were dimmed 
by confused shades of all sorts of mingled colours, 
the moonlight landscape swam before them, and he 
was so much overcome with fatigue, that the Count 
of Cr&vecceur, observing his condition, was at length 
compelled to order two of his attendants, one to 
each rein of Durward’s bridle, in order to prevent 
the risk of his falling from his horse. 

When at length they reached the town of 
Landrecy, the Count, in compassion to the youth, 
who had now been in a great measure with- 
out sleep for three nights, allowed himself and 
liis retinue a halt of four hours for rest and 
refreshment. 

Deep and sound were Quentin’s slumbers, until 
they were broken by the sound of the Count’s 
trumpet, and the cry of his Fouriers and harbin- 
gers, “ Ddbout ! ddbout ! — Ha ! Messires, en route, 
en route ! ” — Yet, unwelcomely early as the tones 
came, they awaked him a different being in strength 
and spirits from what he had fallen asleep. Con- 
fidence in himself and his fortunes returned with 
his reviving spirits, and with the rising sun. He 
thought of his love no longer as a desperate and 
fantastic dream, but as a high and invigorating 
principle, to be cherished in his bosom, although 
he might never propose to himself, under all the 
difficulties by which he was beset, to bring it to 
any prosperous issue. — * “ The pilot,” he reflected, 
“ steers his bark by the polar star, although he 
never expects to become possessor of it ; and the 
thoughts of Isabelle of Crdye shall make me a 


128 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


worthy man-at-arms, though I may never see her 
more. When she hears that a Scottish soldier, 
named Quentin Durward, distinguished himself in 
a well-fought field, or left his body on the breach 
of a disputed fortress, she will remember the com- 
panion of her journey, as one who did all in his 
power to avert the snares and misfortunes which 
beset it, and perhaps will honour his memory with 
a tear, his coffin with a garland.” 

In this manly mood of bearing bis misfortune, 
Quentin felt himself more able to receive and reply 
to the jests of the Count of Crtvecceur, who passed 
several on his alleged effeminacy and incapacity of 
undergoing fatigue. The young Scot accommodated 
himself so good-humouredly to the Count’s raillery, 
and replied at once so happily and so respectfully, 
that the change of his tone and manner made ob- 
viously a more favourable impression on the Count 
than he had entertained from his prisoner’s con- 
duct during the preceding evening, when, rendered 
irritable by the feelings of his situation, he was al- 
ternately moodily silent or fiercely argumentative. 

The veteran soldier began at length to take notice 
of his young companion, as a pretty fellow, of whom 
something might be made ; and more than hinted to 
him, that, would he but resign his situation in the 
Archer-guard of France, he would undertake to 
have him enrolled in the household of the Duke of 
Burgundy in an honourable condition, and would 
himself take care of his advancement. And al- 
though Quentin, with suitable expressions of grati- 
tude, declined this favour at present, until he should 
find out how far he had to complain of his original 
patron, King Louis, he, nevertheless, continued to 
remain on good terms with the Count of Crkvecoeur; 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


129 


and, while his enthusiastic mode of thinking, and 
his foreign and idiomatical manner of expressing 
himself, often excited a smile on the grave cheek 
of the Count, that smile had lost all that it had of 
sarcastic and bitter, and did not exceed the limits 
of good humour and good manners. 

Thus travelling on with much more harmony 
than on the preceding day, the little party came 
at last within two miles of the famous and strong 
town of Peronne, near which the Duke of Bur- 
gundy’s army lay encamped, ready, as was supposed, 
to invade Prance ; and, in opposition to which, 
Louis XI. had himself assembled a strong force 
near Saint Maxence, for the purpose of bringing 
to reason his over-powerful vassal. 

Peronne, situated upon a deep river, in a flat 
country, and surrounded by strong bulwarks and 
profound moats, was accounted in ancient, as in 
modern times, one of the strongest fortresses in 
France . 1 The Count of Cr^vecoeur, his retinue, 
and his prisoner, were approaching the fortress 
about the third hour after noon ; when, riding 
through the pleasant glades of a large forest, which 
then covered the approach to the town on the east 
side, they were met by two men of rank, as ap- 
peared from the number of their attendants, dressed 
in the habits worn in time of peace ; and who, to 
judge from the falcons which they carried on their 
wrists, and the number of spaniels and greyhounds 
led by their followers, were engaged in the amuse- 


1 Indeed, though lying on an exposed and warlike frontier, 
it was never taken by an enemy, but preserved the proud name 
of Peronne la Pucelle, until the Duke of Wellington, a great 
destroyer of that sort of reputation, took the place in the memor- 
able advance upon Paris in 1815. 


130 


QUENTIN DURWA.RD. 


ment of hawking But on perceiving Crdvecoeur, 
with whose appearance and liveries they were suffi- 
ciently intimate, they quitted the search which 
they were making for a heron along the banks of 
a long canal, and came galloping towards him. 

“ News, news, Count of Crbvecceur ! ” they cried 
both together ; — “ will you give news, or take 
news ? or will you barter fairly ? ” 

“ I would barter fairly, Messires,” said Crbve- 
coeur, after saluting them courteously, “ did I con- 
ceive you had any news of importance sufficient to 
make an equivalent for mine.” 

The two sportsmen smiled on each other ; and 
the elder of the two, a fine baronial figure, with a 
dark countenance, marked with that sort of sadness 
which some physiognomists ascribe to a melancholy 
temperament, and some, as the Italian statuary 
augured of the visage of Charles I., consider as 
predicting an unhappy death , 1 turning to his com- 
panion, said, “ Crbvecceur has been in Brabant, the 
country of commerce, and he has learned all its 
artifices — he will be too har'd for us if we drive a 
bargain.” 

“ Messires,” said Crbvecoeur, “ the Duke ought 
in justice to have the first of my wares, as the 
Seigneur takes his toll before open market begins. 
But tell me, are your news of a sad or a pleasant 
complexion ? ” 

The person whom he particularly addressed was 
a lively -looking man, with an eye of great vivacity, 
which was corrected by an expression of reflection 

1 D’Hymbercourt, or Imbercourt, was put to death by the in- 
habitants of Ghent with the Chancellor of Burgundy, in the year 
1477. Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the Bold, appeared 
in mourning in the market-place, and with tears besought the life 
of her servants from her insurgent subjects, but in vain. 


QUENTIN Dll R WARD. 


131 

and gravity about tlie mouth and upper lip — the 
whole physiognomy marking a man who saw and 
judged rapidly, but was sage and slow in forming 
resolutions or in expressing opinions. This was 
the famous Knight of Hainault, son of Collart, or 
Nicolas de 1’ Elite, known in history, and amongst 
historians, by the venerable name of Philip des 
Comines, at this time close to the person of Duke 
Charles the Bold, 1 and one of his most esteemed 
counsellors. He answered Crbvecceur’s question 
concerni ng the __c.omplexion of the news of which 
he amThis companion, the Baron d’Hymbercourt, 
were the depositaries. — “ They were,” he said, 
“like the colours of the rainbow, various in hue, 
as they might be viewed from different points, and 
placed against the black cloud or the fair sky — 
Such a rainbow was never seen in France or Flan- 
ders since that of Noah’s ark.” 

“ My tidings,” replied Crkvecoeur, “ are altogether 
like the comet; gloomy, wild, and terrible in them- 
selves, yet to be accounted the forerunners of still 
greater and more dreadful evils which are to ensue.” 

“We must open our bales,” said Comines to his 
companion, “ or our market will be forestalled by 
some new-comers, for ours are public news. — In 
one word, Crfevecceur — listen, and wonder — King 
Louis is at Peronne ! ” 

“ What ! ” said the Count, in astonishment ; “ has 
the Duke retreated without a battle ? and do you 
remain here in your dress of peace, after the town 
is besieged by the French ? — for I cannot suppose 
it taken.” 

“ No, surely,” said D’Hymbercourt, “ the banners 


1 Note III. — Philip des Comines 


T32 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


of Burgundy have not gone back a foot ; and still 
King Louis is here.” 

“Then Edward of England must have come 
over the seas with his bowmen,” said Cr&vecoeur, 
“ and, like his ancestors, gained a second field of 
Poictiers 

“Not so,” said Comines — “Not a French banner 
has been borne down, not a sail spread from Eng- 
land — where Edward is too much amused among 
the wives of the citizens of London, to think of 
playing the Black Prince. Hear the extraordinary 
truth. You know, wdien you left us, that the con- 
ference between the commissioners on the parts of 
France and Burgundy was broken up, without ap- 
parent chance of reconciliation ? ” 

“ True ; and we dreamt of nothing but war.” 

“What has followed has been indeed so like a 
dream,” said Comines, “ that I almost expect to 
awake, and find it so. Only one day since, the Duke 
had in Council protested so furiously against farther 
delay, that it was resolved to send a defiance to 
the King, and march forward instantly into France. 
Toison d’Or, commissioned for the purpose, had 
put on his official dress, and had his foot in the 
stirrup to mount his horse, when lo ! the French 
herald Mont-joie rode into our camp. We thought 
of nothing else than that Louis had been beforehand 
with our defiance ; and began to consider how much 
the Duke would resent the advice, which had pre- 
vented him from being the first to declare war. 
But a council being speedily assembled, what was 
our wonder when the herald informed us, that 
Louis, King of France, was scarce an hour’s rid- 
ing behind, intending to visit Charles, Duke of 
Burgundy, with a small retinue, in order that 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 133 

their differences might be settled at a personal 
interview ! " 

“ You surprise me, Messires said Crhvecoeur ; 
“ and yet you surprise me less than you might have 
expected ; for, when I was last at Plessis-les-Tours, 
the all-trusted Cardinal Balue, offended with his 
master, and Burgundian at heart, did hint to me, 
that he could so work upon Louis’s peculiar foibles, 
as to lead him to place himself in such a position 
with regard to Burgundy, that the Duke might 
have the terms of peace of his own making. But 
I never suspected that so old a fox as Louis could 
have been induced to come into the trap of his own 
accord. What said the Burgundian counsellors ? ” 

“ As you may guess,” answered D’Hymbercourt •, 
“ talked much of faith to be observed, and little of 
advantage to be obtained, by such a visit ; while it 
was manifest they thought almost entirely of the 
last, and were only anxious to find some way to 
reconcile it with the necessary preservation of 
appearances.” 

“ And what said the Duke ? ” continued the 
Count of Crkvecoeur. 

•“ Spoke brief and bold, as usual,” replied Comines. 
“ ‘ Which of you was it,’ he asked, ‘ who witnessed 
the meeting of my cousin Louis and me after the 
battle of Montl’hery , 1 when I was so thoughtless as 
to accompany him back within the intrenchments 
of Paris with half a score of attendants, and so put 
my person at the King’s mercy ? * I replied, that 
most of us had been present ; and none could ever 
forget the alarm which it had been his pleasure to 
give us. 4 Well,’ said the Duke, ‘ you blamed me 

1 Note IV. — Meeting of Louis and Charles after the battle of 
Montl’herj. 


134 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


for my folly, and I confessed to you that I had acted 
like a giddy-pated boy ; and I am aware, too, that 
my father of happy memory being then alive, my 
kinsman, Louis, would have had less advantage by 
seizing on my person than I might now have by se- 
curing his. But, nevertheless, if my royal kins- 
man comes hither on the present occasion, in the 
same singleness of heart under which I then acted, 
h^ shall be royally welcome. If it is meant by this 
appearance of confidence, to circumvent and to blind 
me, till he execute some of his politic schemes, by 
Saint George of Burgundy, let him look to it ! ’ 
And so, having turned up his mustaches, and stamped 
on the ground, he ordered us all to get on our horses, 
and receive so extraordinary a guest.” 

“ And you met the King accordingly ? ” replied 
the Count of Crkvecceur — “ Miracles have not 
ceased ! — How was he accompanied ? ” 

“ As slightly as might be,” answered D’Hymber- 
court ; “ only a score or two of the Scottish Guard, 
and a few knights and gentlemen of his household 
— among whom his astrologer, Galeotti, made the 
gayest figure.” 

“That fellow,” said Crkvecceur, “holds some 
dependence on the Cardinal Balue — I should not be 
surprised that he has had his share in determining 
the King to this step of doubtful policy. Any no- 
bility of higher rank ? ” 

“ There are Monsieur of Orleans and Dunois,” re- 
plied Comines. 

“ I will have a rouze with Dunois,” said Crkve- 
coeur, “wag the world as it will. But we heard 
that both he and the Duke had fallen into disgrace, 
and were in prison ? ” 

“They were both under arrest in the Castle of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


135 


Loches, that delightful place of retirement for the 
French nobility,” said D’Hymbercourt ; “but Louis 
has released them, in order to bring them with him 
— perhaps because he cared not to leave Orleans 
behind. For his other attendants, faith, I think his 
gossip, the Hangman Marshal, with two or three 
of his retinue, and Oliver, his barber, may be the 
most considerable — and the whole bevy so poorly 
arrayed, that, by my honour, the King resembles 
most an old usurer going to collect desperate debts, 
attended by a body of catchpolls.” 

“ And where is he lodged ? ” said Crfevecceur. 

“ Nay, that,” replied Comines, “ is the most mar- 
vellous of. all. Our Duke offered to let the King’s 
Archer-Guard have a gate of the town, and a bridge 
of boats over the Somme, and to have assigned to 
Louis himself the adjoining house, belonging to a 
wealthy burgess, Giles Orthen ; but, in going thither, 
the King espied the banners of De Lau and Pencil 
de Riviere, whom he had banished from France ; 
and scared, as it would seem, with the thought of 
lodging so near refugees and malecon tents of his own 
making, he craved to be quartered in the Castle of 
Peronne, and there he hath his abode accordingly.” 

“ Why, God ha’ mercy ! ” exclaimed Crkvecceur, 
“ this is not only venturing into the lion’s den, but 
thrusting his head into his very jaws — Nothing 
less than the very bottom of the I'at-trap would 
serve the crafty old politician ! ” 

“ Nay,” said Comines, “ D’Hymbercourt hath not 
told you the speech of Le Glorieux 1 — which, in my 
mind, was the shrewdest opinion that was given.” 

“ And what said his most illustrious wisdom ? ” 
asked the Count. 

1 The jester of Charles of Burgundy, of whom more hereafter. 


136 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“As the Duke/’ replied Comines, “was hastily 
ordering some vessels and ornaments of plate, and 
the like, to be prepared as presents for the King 
and his retinue, by way of welcome on his arrival, 
‘ Trouble not thy small brain about it, my friend 
Charles/ said Le Glorieux, ‘ I will give thy cousin 
Louis a nobler and a fitter gift than thou canst ; 
and that is my cap and bells, and my bauble to 
boot ; for, by the mass, he is a greater fool than I 
am, for putting himself in thy power.’ — ‘ But if I 
give him no reason to repent it, sirrah, how then ? ’ 
said the Duke. ‘Then, truly, Charles, thou shalt 
have cap and bauble thyself, as the greatest fool of 
the three of us.’ I promise you this knavish quip 
touched the Duke closely — I saw him change colour 
and bite his lip. — And now, our news are told, noble 
Crbvecceur, and what think you they resemble ? ” 

“A mine full-charged with gunpowder,” answered 
Crkvecoeur, “ to which, I fear, it is my fate to bring 
the kindled linstock. Your news and mine are like 
flax and fire, which cannot meet without bursting 
into flame, or like certain chemical substances which 
cannot be mingled without an explosion. Friends, — 
gentlemen, — ride close by my rein ; and when I tell 
you what has chanced in the bishopric of Liege, I 
think you will be of opinion, that King Louis might 
as safely have undertaken a pilgrimage to the infer- 
nal regions, as this ill-timed visit to Peronne.” 

The two nobles drew up close on either hand of 
the Count, and listened, with half-suppressed excla- 
mations, and gestures of the deepest wonder and 
interest, to his account of the transactions at Liege 
and Schonwaldt. Quentin was then called forward, 
and examined and re-examined on the particulars 
of the Bishop’s death, until at length he refused 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


13 


to answer any further interrogatories, not knowing 
wherefore they were asked, or what hse might be 
made of his replies. 

They now reached the rich and level banks of 
the Somme, and the ancient walls of the little town 
of Peronne la Pucelle, and the deep green meadows 
adjoining, now whitened with the numerous tents 
of the Duke of Burgundy’s army, amounting to 
about fifteen thousand men. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE INTERVIEW. 

When Princes meet, Astrologers may mark it 
An ominous conjunction, full of boding, 

Like that of Mars with Saturn. 

Old Play, 

One hardly knows whether to term it a privilege 
or a penalty annexed to the quality of princes, that, 
in their intercourse with each other, they are re- 
quired, by the respect which is due to their own 
rank and dignity, to regulate their feelings and 
expressions by a severe etiquette, which precludes 
all violent and avowed display of passion, and which, 
but that the whole world are aware that this assumed 
complaisance is a matter of ceremony, might justly 
pass for profound dissimulation. It is no less cer- 
tain, however, that the overstepping of these bounds 
of ceremonial, for the purpose of giving more direct 
vent to their angry passions, has the effect of com- 
promising their dignity with the world in general ; 
as was particularly noted when those distinguished 
rivals, Francis the First, and the Emperor Charles, 
gave each other the lie direct, and were desirous 
of deciding their differences hand to hand, in single 
combat. 

Charles of Burgundy, the most hasty and impa- 
tient, nay, the most imprudent prince of his time, 
found himself, nevertheless, fettered within the 













QUENTIN DURWARD. 


139 


magic circle which prescribed the most profound 
deference to Louis, as his Suzerain and liege Lord, 
who had deigned to confer upon him, a vassal of the 
crown, the distinguished honour of a personal visit. 
Dressed in his ducal mantle, and attended by his 
great officers, and principal knights and nobles, 
he went in gallant cavalcade, to receive Louis XI. 
His retinue absolutely blazed with gold and silver ; 
for the wealth of the Court of England being ex- 
hausted by the wars of York and Lancaster, and 
the expenditure of France limited by the economy 
of the Sovereign, that of Burgundy was for the 
time the most magnificent in Europe. The cortege 
of Louis, on the contrary, was few in number, and 
comparatively mean in appearance, and the exterior 
of the King himself, in a threadbare cloak, with 
his wonted old high-crowned hat stuck full of 
images, rendered the contrast yet more striking; 
and as the Duke, richly attired with the coronet 
and mantle of state, threw himself from his noble 
charger, and, kneeling on one knee, offered to hold 
the stirrup while Louis dismounted from his little 
ambling palfrey, the effect was almost grotesque. 

The greeting between the two potentates was, 
of course, as full of affected kindness and compli- 
ment, as it was totally devoid of sincerity. But 
the temper of the Duke rendered it much more 
difficult for him to preserve the necessary appear- 
ances, in voice, speech, and demeanour ; while in 
the King, every species of simulation and dissimu- 
lation seemed so much a part of his nature, that 
those best acquainted with him could not have dis- 
tinguished what was feigned from what was real. 

Perhaps the most accurate illustration, were it 
not unworthy two such high potentates, would be, 


140 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


to suppose the King in the situation of a stranger, 
perfectly acquainted with the habits and disposi- 
tions of the canine race, who, for some purpose of 
his own, is desirous to make friends with a large 
and surly mastiff, that holds him in suspicion, and 
is disposed to worry him on the first symptoms 
either of diffidence or of umbrage. The mastiff 
growls internally, erects his bristles, shows his 
teeth, yet is ashamed to fly upon the intruder, who 
seems at the same time so kind and so confiding, 
and therefore the animal endures advances which 
are far from pacifying him, watching at the same 
time the slightest opportunity which may justify 
him in his own eyes for seizing his friend by the 
throat. 

The King was no doubt sensible, from the altered 
voice, constrained manner, and abrupt gestures of 
the Duke, that the game he had to play was deli- 
cate, and perhaps he more than once repented 
having ever taken it in hand. But repentance was 
too late, and all that remained for him was that 
inimitable dexterity of management, which the 
King understood equally at least with any man 
that ever lived. 

The demeanour which Louis used towards the 
Duke, was such as to resemble the kind overflow- 
ing of the heart in a moment of sincere reconcilia- 
tion with an honoured and tried friend, from whom 
he had been estranged by temporary circumstances 
now passed away, and forgotten as soon as removed. 
The King blamed himself for not having sooner 
taken the decisive step, of convincing his kind and 
good kinsman by such a mark of confidence as he 
was now bestowing, that the angry passages which 
had occurred betwixt them were nothing in his 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


141 

remembrance, when weighed against the kindness 
which received him when an exile from France, 
and under the displeasure of the King his father. 
He spoke of the Good Duke of Burgundy, as Philip 
the father of Duke Charles was currently called, 
and remembered a thousand instances of his pa- 
ternal kindness. 

“ I think, cousin,” he said, “ your father made 
little difference in his affection, betwixt you and 
me ; for I remember, when by an accident I had 
bewildered myself in a hunting-party, I found the 
Good Duke upbraiding you with leaving me in the 
forest, as if you had been careless of the safety of 
an elder brother.” 

The Duke of Burgundy’s features were naturally 
harsh and severe ; and when he attempted to smile, 
in polite acquiescence to the truth of what the 
King told him, the grimace which he made was 
truly diabolical. 

“ Prince of dissemblers,” he said, in his secret 
soul, “ would that it stood with my honour to re- 
mind you how you have requited all the benefits 
of our House ! ” 

“ And then,” continued the King, “ if the ties 
of consanguinity and gratitude are not sufficient to 
bind us together, my fair cousin, we have those of 
spiritual relationship ; for, I am godfather to your 
fair daughter Mary, who is as dear to me as one of 
my own maidens ; and when the Saints (their holy 
name be blessed !) sent me a little blossom which 
withered in the course of three months, it was your 
princely father who held it at the font, and cele- 
brated the ceremony of baptism, with richer and 
prouder magnificence than Paris itself could have 
afforded. Never shall I forget the deep, the in- 


T42 


QUENTIN DUB. WARD. 


delible impression, which the generosity of Duke 
Philip, and yours, my dearest cousin, ma'de upon the 
half-broken heart of the poor exile ! ” 

“ Your Majesty,” said the Duke, compelling him- 
self to make some reply, “ acknowledged that slight 
obligation in terms which overpaid all the display 
which Burgundy could make, to show due sense of 
the honour you had done its Sovereign.” 

“ I remember the words you mean, fair cousin,” 
said the King, smiling ; “ I think they were, that 
in guerdon of the benefit of that day, I, poor wan- 
derer, had nothing to offer, save the persons of 
myself, of my wife, and of my child. — Well, and 
I think I have indifferently well redeemed my 
pledge.” 

“ I mean not to dispute what your Majesty is 
pleased to aver,” said the Duke ; “ but ” 

“ But you ask,” said the King, interrupting him, 
“ how my actions have accorded with my words — 
Marry thus : the body of my infant child Joachim 
rests in Burgundian earth — my own person I have 
this morning placed unreservedly in your power — 
and, for that of my wife, — truly, cousin, I think, 
considering the period of time which has passed, 
you will scarce insist on my keeping my word in 
that particular. She was born on the day of the 
Blessed Annunciation,” (he crossed himself, and 
muttered an Ora 'pro nobis,) “ some fifty years since ; 
but she is no farther distant than Rheims, and if 
you insist on my promise being fulfilled to the let- 
ter, she shall presently wait your pleasure.” 

Angry as the Duke of Burgundy was at the bare- 
faced attempt of the King to assume towards him a 
tone of friendship and intimacy, he could not help 
laughing at the whimsical reply of that singular 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


M3 


monarch, and his laugh was as discordant as the 
abrupt tones of passion in which he often spoke. 
Having laughed longer and louder than was at that 
period, or would now be, thought fitting the time 
and occasion, he answered in the same tone, bluntly 
declining the honour of the Queen’s company, but 
stating his willingness to accept that of the King’s 
eldest daughter, whose beauty was celebrated. 

“ I am happy, fair cousin,” said the King, with 
one of those dubious smiles of which he frequently 
made use, “ that your gracious pleasure has not 
fixed on my younger daughter Joan. I should 
otherwise have had spear-breaking between you 
and my cousin of Orleans ; and, had harm come of 
it, I must on either side have lost a kind friend and 
affectionate cousin.” 

“ Nay, nay, my royal sovereign,” said Duke 
Charles, “ the Duke of Orleans shall have no inter- 
ruption from me in the path which he has chosen 
par amours. The cause in which I couch my lance 
against Orleans, must be fair and straight.” 

Louis was far from taking amiss this brutal allu- 
sion to the personal deformity of the Princess Joan. 
On the contrary, he was rather pleased to find, that 
the Duke was content to be amused with broad 
jests, in which he was himself a proficient, and 
which (according to the modern phrase) spared 
much sentimental hypocrisy. Accordingly, he 
speedily placed their intercourse on such a footing, 
that Charles, though he felt it impossible to play 
the part of an affectionate and reconciled friend to a 
monarch whose ill offices he had so often encoun- 
tered, and whose sincerity on the present occasion he 
so strongly doubted, yet had no difficulty in acting 
the hearty landlord towards a facetious guest; and 


1 44 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


so the want of reciprocity in kinder feelings between 
them, was supplied by the tone of good fellowship 
which exists between two boon companions, — a 
tone natural to the Duke from the frankness, and, 
it might he added, the grossness of his character, 
and to Louis, because, though capable of assuming 
any mood of social intercourse, that which really 
suited him best was mingled with grossness of ideas, 
and caustic humour in expression. 

Both Princes were happily able to preserve, 
during the period of a banquet at the town-house 
of Peronne, the same kind of conversation, on 
which they met as on a neutral ground, and which, 
as Louis easily perceived, was more available than 
any other to keep the Duke of Burgundy in that 
state of composure which seemed necessary to his 
own safety. 

Yet he was alarmed to observe, that the Duke 
had around him several of those French nobles, and 
those of the highest rank, and in situations of great 
trust and power, whom his own severity or injus- 
tice had driven into exile ; and it was to secure 
himself from the possible effects of their resentment 
and revenge, that (as already mentioned) he requested 
to be lodged in the Castle or Citadel of Peronne, 
rather than in the town itself . 1 This was readily 

1 The arrival of three brothers, Princes of the House of 
Savoy, of Monseigneur de Lau, whom the King had long 
detained in prison, of Sire Poncet de Riviere, and the Seigneur 
de Urfe, — who, by the way, as a romance writer of a peculiar 
turn, might have been happily enough introduced into the 
present work, but the fate of the Euphuist was a warning to 
the author — all of these nobles bearing the emblem of Bur- 
gundy, the cross, namely, of Saint Andrew, inspired Louis 
with so much suspicion, that he very impolitically demanded 
to be lodged in the old Castle of Peronne, and thus rendered 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


145 


granted by Duke Charles, with one of those grim 
smiles, of which it was impossible to say, whether 
it meant good or harm to the party whom it 
concerned. 

But when the King, expressing himself with as 
much delicacy as he could, and in the manner he 
thought best qualified to lull suspicion asleep, asked, 
whether the Scottish Archers of his Guard might 
not maintain the custody of the castle of Peronne 
during his residence there, in lieu of the gate of the 
town which the Duke had offered to their care, 
Charles replied, with his wonted sternness of voice, 
and abruptness of manner, rendered more alarming 
by his habit, when he spoke, of either turning up 
his mustaches or handling his sword or dagger, 
the last of which he used frequently to draw a little 
way, and then return • to the sheath , 1 — “ Saint 
Martin ! No, my liege. You are in your vassal’s 
camp and city — so men call me in respect to your 
Majesty — my castle and town are yours, and my 
men are yours ; so it is indifferent whether my men- 
at-arms or the Scottish Archers guard either the 
outer gate or defences of the Castle. — No, b/ Saint 
George ! Peronne is a virgin fortress — she shall 
not lose her reputation by any neglect of mine. 
Maidens must be carefully watched, my royal cou- 
sin, if we would have them continue to live in good 
fame.” 

“ Surely, fair cousin, and I altogether agree with 
you,” said the King, “ I being in fact more inter- 
ested in the reputation of the good little town than 

himself an absolute captive. — See Comines* Memoirs for the 
year 1468. 

1 This gesture, very indicative of a fierce character, is also by 
stage-tradition a distinction of Shakspeare’s Richard III. 


i 4 6 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

you are — Peronne being, as you know, fair cousin, 
one of those upon the same river Somme, which, 
pledged to your father of happy memory for re- 
demption of money, are liable to be redeemed upon 
repayment. And, to speak truth, coming, like an 
honest debtor, disposed to clear off my obligations 
of every kind, 1 have brought here a few sumpter 
mules loaded with silver for the redemption — 
enough to maintain even your princely and royal 
establishment, fair cousin, for the space of three 
years.” 

“ I will not receive a penny of it,” said the Duke, 
twirling his mustaches; “the day of redemption 
is past, my royal cousin ; nor was there ever serious 
purpose that the right should be exercised, the ces- 
sion of these towns being the sole recompense my 
father ever received from France, when, in a happy 
hour for your family, he consented to forget the 
murder of my grandfather, and to exchange the al- 
liance of England for that of your father. Saint 
George ! if he had not so acted, your royal self, far 
from having towns on the Somme, could scarce have 
kept tliose beyond the Loire. — No — I will not 
render a stone of them, were I to receive for every 
stone so rendered its weight in gold. I thank God, 
and the wisdom and valour of my ancestors, that 
the revenues of Burgundy, though it be but a 
duchy, will maintain my state, even when a King 
is my guest, without obliging me to barter my 
heritage.” 

“Well, fair cousin,” answered the King, with 
the same mild and placid manner as before, and 
unperturbed by the loud tone and violent gestures 
of the Duke, “ I see that you are so good a friend 
to France, that you are unwilling to part with 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


147 


aught that belongs to her. But we shall need 
some moderator in these affairs when we come to 
treat of them in council — What say you to Saint 
Paul?” 

“Neither Saint Paul, nor Saint Peter, nor e’er 
a Saint in the Calendar,” said the Duke of Burgundy, 
“ shall preach me out of the possession of Peronne.” 

“ Nay, but you mistake me,” said King Louis, 
smiling ; “ I mean Louis de. Luxembourg, our 
trusty constable, the Count of Saint Paul. — Ah 1 
Saint Mary of Embrun ! we lack but his head at 
our conference ! the best head in France, and the 
most useful to the restoration of perfect harmony 
betwixt us.” 

“ By Saint George of Burgundy ! ” said the Duke, 
“I marvel to hear your Majesty talk thus of a man, 
false and perjured both to France and Burgundy 
— one, who hath ever endeavoured to fan into a 
flame our frequent differences, and that with the 
purpose of giving himself the airs of a mediator. 
I swear by the Order I wear, that his marshes shall 
not be long a resource for him ! ” 

“ Be not so warm, cousin,” replied the King, 
smiling, and speaking under his breath ; “ when I 
wished for the constable’s head , { b ) as a means of 
ending the settlement of 0111 trifling differences, I 
had no desire for his body , which might remain at 
Saint Quentin’s with much convenience.” 

“ Ho ! ho ! I take your meaning, my royal cou- 
sin,” said Charles, with the same dissonant laugh 
which some other of the King’s coarse pleasantries 
had extorted, and added, stamping with his heel on 
the ground, “ I allow, in that sense, the head of the 
Constable might be useful at Peronne.” 

These, and other discourses, by which the King 


1 48 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

mixed hints at serious affairs amid matters of mirth 
and amusement, did not follow each other conse- 
cutively ; but were adroitly introduced during the 
time of the banquet at the Hotel de Yille, during 
a subsequent interview in the Duke’s own apart- 
ments, and, in short, as occasion seemed to render 
the introduction of such delicate subjects easy and 
natural. 

Indeed, however rashly Louis had placed himself 
in a risk, which the Duke’s fiery temper, and the 
mutual subjects of exasperated enmity which sub- 
sisted betwixt them, rendered of doubtful and 
perilous issue, never pilot on an unknown coast 
conducted himself with more firmness and prudence. 
He seemed to sound, with the utmost address and 
precision, the depths and shallows of his rival’s 
mind and temper, and manifested neither doubt nor 
fear, when the result of his experiments discovered 
much more of sunken rocks, and of dangerous 
shoals, than of safe anchorage. 

At length a day closed, which must have been a 
wearisome one to Louis, from the constant exertion, 
vigilance, precaution, and attention, which his situa- 
tion required, as it was a day of constraint to the 
Duke, from the necessity of suppressing the violent 
feelings to which he was in the general habit of 
giving uncontrolled vent. 

Ho sooner had the latter retired into his own 
apartment, after he had taken a formal leave of the 
King for the night, than he gave way to the ex- 
plosion of passion which he had so long suppressed ; 
and many an oath and abusive epithet, as his jester, 
Le Glorieux, said, “fell that night upon heads 
which they were never coined for,” — his domestics 
reaping the benefit of that hoard of injurious 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


149 


language, which he could not in decency bestow on 
his royal guest, even in his absence, and which was 
yet become too great to be altogether suppressed. 
The jests of the clown had some effect in tranquil- 
lizing the Duke’s angry mood ; — he laughed loudly 
threw the jester a piece of gold, caused himself to be 
disrobed in tranquillity, swallowed a deep cup of 
wine and spices, went to bed, and slept soundly. 

The couchee of King Louis is more worthy of 
notice than that of Charles ; for the violent expres- 
sion of exasperated and headlong passion, as indeed 
it belongs more to the brutal than the intelligent 
part of our nature, has little to interest us, in com- 
parison to the deep workings of a vigorous and 
powerful mind. 

Louis was escorted to the lodgings he had chosen 
in the Castle, or Citadel of Peronne, by the chamber- 
lains and harbingers of the Duke of Burgundy, and 
received at the entrance by a strong guard of archers 
and men-at-arms. 

As he descended from his horse to cross the draw- 
bridge, over a moat of unusual width and depth, 
he looked on the sentinels, and observed to Comines, 
who accompanied him, with other- Burgundian 
nobles, “They wear Saint Andrew’s crosses — but 
not those of my Scottish Archers.” 

“You will find them as ready to die in your 
defence, Sire,” said the Burgundian, whose sagacious 
ear had detected in the King’s tone of speech a 
feeling, which doubtless Louis would have con- 
cealed if he could. “ They wear the Saint An- 
drew’s Cross as the appendage of the collar of the 
Golden Fleece, my master the Duke of Burgundy’s 
Order.” 

“Do I not know it?” said Louis, showing the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


i5° 

collar which he himself wore in compliment to his 
host; “It is one of the dear bonds of fraternity 
which exist between my kind brother and myself. 
We are brothers in chivalry, as in spiritual relation- 
ship ; cousins by birth, and friends by every tie of 
kind feeling and good neighbourhood. — No farther 
than the base-court, my noble lords and gentle- 
men ! I can permit your attendance no farther — - 
you have done me enough of grace.” 

“ We were charged by the Duke,” said D’Hym- 
bercourt, “ to bring your Majesty to your lodging. 
— We trust your Majesty will permit us to obey 
our master’s command.” 

“ In this small matter,” said the King, “ I trust 
you will allow my command to outweigh his, even 
with you his liege subjects. — lam something in- 
disposed, my lords — something fatigued. Great 
pleasure hath its toils, as well as great pain. I 
trust to enjoy your society better to-morrow. — And 
yours too, Seignior Philip of Comines — I am told 
you are the annalist of the time — we that desire to 
have a name in history, must speak you fair, for 
men say your pen hath a sharp point, when you 
will. — Good-night, my lords and gentles, to all and 
each of you.” 

The Lords of Burgundy retired, much pleased 
with the grace of Louis’s manner, and the artful 
distribution of his attentions ; and the King was 
left with only one or two of his own personal fol- 
lowers, under the archway of the base-court of the 
Castle of Peronne, looking on the huge tower which 
occupied one of the angles, being in fact the Don- 
jon, or principal Keep, of the place. This tall, dark, 
massive building, was seen clearly by the same 
moon which was lighting Quentin Durward betwixt 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Charleroi and Peronne, which, as the reader is 
aware, shone with peculiar lustre. The great Keep 
was in form nearly resembling the White Tower 
in the Citadel of London, but still more ancient in 
its architecture, deriving its date, as was affirmed, 
from the days of Charlemagne. The walls were of 
a tremendous thickness, the windows very small, 
and grated with bars of iron, and the huge clumsy 
bulk of the building cast a dark and portentous 
shadow over the whole of the court-yard. 

“ I am not to be lodged there ! ” the King said, 
with a shudder, that had something in it ominous. 

“ No,” replied the grey-headed seneschal, who 
attended upon him unbonneted — “ God forbid ! — 
Your Majesty’s apartments are prepared in these 
lower buildings which are hard by, and in which 
King John slept two nights before the battle of 
Poitiers.” 

“ Hum — that is no lucky omen neither ” — mut- 
tered the King ; “ but what of the Tower, my old 
friend ? and why should you desire of Heaven that 
I may not be there lodged ? ” 

“ Nay, my gracious liege,” said the seneschal, “ I 
know no evil of the Tower at all — only that the 
sentinels say lights are seen, and strange noises 
heard in it, at night ; and there are reasons why 
that may be the case, for anciently it was used as 
a state prison, and there are many tales of deeds 
which have been done in it.” 

Louis asked no farther questions ; for no man 
was more bound than he to respect the secrets of 
a prison-house. At the door of the apartments 
destined for his use, which, though of later date 
than the Tower, were still both ancient and gloomy, 
stood a small party of the Scottish Guard, which the 


152 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 

Duke although he declined to concede the point to 
Louis, had ordered to be introduced, so as to be 
near the person of th6ir master. The faithful Lord 
Crawford was at their head. 

“Crawford — my honest and faithful Crawford,’ 
said the King, “ where hast thou been to-day ? — 
Are the lords ot Burgundy so inhospitable as to 
neglect one of the bravest and most noble gentle- 
men that ever trode a court ? — I saw you not at 
the banquet.” 

“I declined it, my liege,” said Crawford — “times 
are changed with me. The day has been that I 
could have ventured a carouse with the best man in 
Burgundy, and that in the juice of his own grape ; 
but a matter of four pints now flusters me, and I 
think it concerns your Majesty’s service to set in 
this an example to my callants.” 

“Thou art ever prudent,” said the King; “but 
surely your toil is the less when you have so few 
men to command ? — and a time of festivity requires 
not so severe self-denial on your part as a time of 
danger.” 

“ If I have few men to command,” said Crawford, 
“ I have the more need to keep the knaves in fitting 
condition ; and whether this business be like to 
end in feasting or fighting, God and your Majesty 
know better than old John of Crawford.” 

“ You surely do not apprehend any danger ? ” 
said the King hastily, yet in a whisper. 

“ Not I,” answered Crawford ; “ I wish I did ; for, 
as old Earl Tineman 1 used to say, apprehended 
dangers may be always defended dangers. — The 
word for the night, if your Majesty pleases ? ” ' 


1 An Earl of Douglas, so called. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


153 


“ Let it be Burgundy, in honour of our host and 
of a liquor that you love, Crawford.” 

“I will quarrel with neither Duke nor drink, 
so called/'* said Crawford, “ provided always that 
both be sound. A good night to your Majesty ! ” 

“ A good night, my trusty Scot,” said the King, 
and passed on to his apartments. 

At the door of his bedroom Le Balafrd was placed 
sentinel. “Follow me hither,” said the King, as 
he passed him; and the Archer accordingly, like 
a piece of machinery put in motion by an artist, 
strode after him into the apartment, and remained 
there fixed, silent, and motionless, attending the 
royal command. 

“ Have you heard from that wandering Paladin, 
your nephew ? ” said the King ; “ for he hath been 
lost to us, since, like a young knight who had set 
out upon his first adventures, he sent us home two 
prisoners, as the first fruits of his chivalry.” 

“ My lord, I heard something of that,” said 
Balafrd ; “ and I hope your Majesty will believe, 
that if he hath acted wrongfully, it was in no shape 
by my precept or example, since I never was so bold 
as to unhorse any of your Majesty’s most illustrious 
house, better knowing my own condition, and ” 

“ Be silent on that point,” said the King : “ your 
nephew did his duty in the matter.” 

“ There indeed,” continued Balafre, “ he had the 
cue from me. — ‘ Quentin/ said I to him, * whatever 
comes of it, remember you belong to the Scottish 
Archer-guard, and do your duty whatever . comes 
on’t.’ ” 

“ I guessed he had some such exquisite instruc- 
ter,” said Louis; “but it concerns me that you 
answer my first question — Have you heard of youi 


154 


QUENTIN DUKWARD. 


nephew of late ? — Stand aback, my masters/’ he 
added, addressing the gentlemen of his chamber, 
“ for this concerneth no ears but mine.” 

“ Surely, please your Majesty,” said Balafrd, “ 1 
have seen this very evening the groom Chariot, 
whom my ‘kinsman dispatched from Liege, or some 
castle of the Bishop’s which is near it, and where 
he hath lodged the Ladies of Croye in safety.” 

‘ Now our Lady of Heaven be praised for it ! ” 
said the King. “ Art thou sure of it ? — sure of 
the good news ? ” 

“ As sure as I can be of aught,” said Le Balafr^ ; 
“ the fellow, I think, hath letters for your Majesty 
from the Ladies of Croye.” 

“ Haste to get them,” said the King — “ Give 
thy harquebuss to one of these knaves — to 
Oliver — to any one. — Now our Lady of Embrun 
be praised ! and silver shall be the screen that 
surrounds her high altar ! ” 

Louis, in this fit of gratitude and devotion, doffed 
as usual, his hat, selected from the figures with 
which it was garnished that which represented his 
favourite image of the Virgin, placed it on a table, 
and, kneeling down, repeated reverently the vow 
he had made. 

The groom, being the first messenger whom 
Durward had dispatched from Schonwaldt, was 
now introduced with his letters. They were ad- 
dressed to the King by the Ladies of Croye, and 
barely thanked him in very cold terms for his 
courtesy while at his Court, and, something more 
warmly, for having permitted them to retire, and 
sent them in safety from his dominions ; expres- 
sions at which Louis laughed very heartily, in- 
stead of resenting them. He then demanded of 


QUENTIN DUE WARD. 


155 


Chariot, with obvious interest, whether they had 
not sustained some alarm or attack upon the road ? 
Chariot, a stupid fellow, and selected for that 
quality, gave a very confused account of the affray 
in which his companion, the Gascon, had been killed, 
but knew of no other. Again Louis demanded of 
him, minutely and particularly, the route which the 
party had taken to Liege ; and seemed much inter- 
ested when he was informed, in reply, that they 
had, upon approaching Namur, kept the more direct 
road to Liege, upon the right bank of the Maes, 
instead of the left bank, as recommended in their 
route. The King then ordered the man a small 
present, and dismissed him, disguising the anxiety 
he had expressed, as if it only concerned the safety 
of the Ladies of Croye. 

Yet the news, though they inferred the failure of 
one of his own favourite plans, seemed to imply 
more internal satisfaction on the King’s part than 
he would have probably indicated in a case of bril- 
liant success. He sighed like one whose breast has 
been relieved from a heavy burden, muttered his 
devotional acknowledgments with an air of deep 
sanctity, raised up his eyes, and hastened to adjust 
newer and surer schemes of ambition. 

With such purpose, Louis ordered the atten- 
dance of his astrologer, Martius Galeotti, who ap- 
peared with his usual air of assumed dignity, yet 
not without a shade of uncertainty on his brow, as 
if he had doubted the King’s kind reception. It 
was, however, favourable, even beyond the warm- 
est which he had ever met with at any former inter- 
view. Louis termed him his friend, his father in 
the sciences — the glass by which a king should look 
into distant futurity — and concluded by thrusting 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


i5 6 

on his finger a ring of very considerable value. 
Galeotti, not aware of the circumstances which had 
thus suddenly raised his character in the estimation 
of Louis, yet understood his own profession too 
well to let that ignorance be seen. He received 
with grave modesty the praises of Louis, which he 
contended were only due to the nobleness of the 
science which he practised, a science the rather the 
more deserving of admiration on account of its 
working miracles through means of so feeble an 
agent as himself ; and he and the King took leave, 
for once much satisfied with each other. 

On the Astrologer’s departure, Louis threw him- 
self into a chair, and appearing much exhausted, 
dismissed the rest of his attendants, excepting 
Oliver alone, who, creeping around with gentle as- 
siduity and noiseless step, assisted him in the task 
of preparing for repose. 

While he received this assistance, the King, un- 
like to his wont, was so silent and passive, that his 
attendant was struck by the unusual change in his 
deportment. The worst minds have often some- 
thing of good principle in them — banditti show 
fidelity to their captain, and sometimes a protected 
and promoted favourite has felt a gleam of sincere 
interest in the monarch to whom he owed his great- 
ness. Oliver le Diable, le Mauvais, (or by what- 
ever other name he was called expressive of his 
evil propensities,) was, nevertheless, scarcely so 
completely identified with Satan as not to feel 
some touch of grateful feeling for his master in this 
singular condition, when, as it seemed, his fate was 
deeply interested, and his strength seemed to be 
exhausted. After for a short time rendering to 
the King in silence the usual services paid by a 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


157 


servant to his master at the toilet, the attendant 
was at length tempted to say, with the freedom 
which his Sovereign’s indulgence had permitted 
him in such circumstances, “ Tete-dieu , Sire, you 
seem as if you had lost a battle ; and yet I, who 
was near your Majesty during this whole day, never 
knew you fight a field so gallantly.” 

“ A field ! ” said King Louis, looking up, and 
assuming his wonted causticity of tone and man- 
ner ; “ Pasques-dieu, my friend Oliver, say I have 
kept the arena in a bull-fight ; for a blinder, and 
more stubborn, untameable, uncontrollable brute, 
than our cousin of Burgundy, never existed, save 
in the shape of a Murcian bull, trained for the bull- 
feasts. — Well, let it pass — I dodged him bravely. 
But, Oliver, rejoice with me that my plans in Flan- 
ders have not taken effect, whether as concerning 
those two rambling Princesses of Croye, or in Liege 
— you understand me ? ” 

“ In faith, I do not, Sire,” replied Oliver ; “ it 
is impossible for me to congratulate your Majesty 
on the failure of your favourite schemes, unless you 
tell me some reason for the change in your own 
wishes and views.” 

“ Nay,” answered the King, “ there is no change 
in either, in a general view. But, Pasques-dieu , 
my friend, I have this day learned more of Duke 
Charles than I before knew. When he was Count 
de .Charalois, in the time of the old Duke Philip 
and the banished Dauphin of France, we drank 
and hunted, and rambled together — and many a 
wild adventure we have had. And in those days 
I had a decided advantage over him — like that 
which a strong spirit naturally assumes over a 
weak one. But he has since changed — has become 


QUENTIN BURWARD. 


158 

a dogged, daring, assuming, disputatious dogmatist, 
who nourishes an obvious wish to drive matters to 
extremities, while he thinks he has the game in his 
own hands. I was compelled to glide as gently 
away from each offensive topic, as if I touched red- 
hot iron. I did but hint at the possibility of those 
erratic Countesses of Croye, ere they attained Liege, 
(for thither I frankly confessed that, to the best of 
my belief, they were gone,) falling into the hands 
of some wild snapper upon the frontiers, and, 
Pasques-dieu ! you would have thought I had spoken 
of sacrilege. It is needless to tell you what he 
said, and quite enough to say, that I would have 
held my head’s safety very insecure, if, in that 
moment, accounts had been brought of the suc- 
cess of thy friend, William with the Beard, in his 
and thy honest scheme of bettering himself by 
marriage.” 

“No friend of mine , if it please your Majesty,” 
said Oliver — “ neither friend nor plan of mine.” 

“ True, Oliver,” answered the King ; “ thy plan 
had not been to wed, but to shave such a bride- 
groom. Well, thou didst wish her as bad a one, 
when thou didst modestly hint at thyself. How- 
ever, Oliver, lucky the man who has her not ; for 
hang, draw, and quarter, were the most gentle 
words which my gentle cousin spoke of him who 
should wed the young Countess, his vassal, without 
his most ducal permission.” 

“And he is, doubtless, as jealous of any dis- 
turbances in the good town of Liege ? ” asked the 
favourite. 

“ As much, or much more so,” replied the King, 
“as your understanding may easily anticipate; 
but, ever since I resolved on coming hither, my 


QUENTIN DURWARU. 


*59 


messengers have been in Liege, to repress, for 
the present, every movement to insurrection ; and 
my very busy and bustling friends, Rouslaer and 
Pavilion, have orders to be quiet as a mouse un- 
til this happy meeting between my cousin and me 
is over.” 

“Judging, then, from your Majesty’s account,” 
said Oliver, dryly, “ the utmost to be hoped from 
this meeting is, that it should not make your con- 
dition worse ? — Surely this is like the crane that 
thrust her head into the fox’s mouth, and was glad 
to thank her good fortune that it was not bitten off. 
Yet your Majesty seemed deeply obliged even now 
to the sage philosopher who encouraged you to play 
so hopeful a game.” 

“No game,” said the King, sharply, “is to be de- 
spaired of until it is lost, and that I have no reason 
to expect it will be in my own case. On the con- 
trary, if nothing occurs to stir the rage of this vin- 
dictive madman, I am sure of victory ; and surely, 
I am not a little obliged to the skill which selected 
for my agent, as the conductor of the Ladies of 
Croye, a youth whose horoscope so far corresponded 
with mine, that he hath saved me from danger, 
even by the disobedience of my own commands, 
and taking the route which avoided De la Marck’s 
ambuscade.” 

“ Your Majesty,” said Oliver, “ may find many 
agents who will serve you on the terms of act- 
ing rather after their own pleasure than your 
instructions.” 

“ Nay, nay, Oliver,” said Louis, impatiently, “ the 
heathen poet speaks of Vota diis exaudita malignis, 
— wishes, that is, which the saints grant to us in 
their wrath ; and such, in the circumstances, would 


160 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

have been the success of William de la Marck’s ex- 
ploit, had it taken place about this time, and while 
I am in the power of this Duke of Burgundy. — 
And this my own art foresaw — fortified by that of 
Galeotti ; — that is, I foresaw not the miscarriage of 
De la Marck’s undertaking, but I foresaw that the 
expedition of yonder Scottish Archer should end 
happily for me — and such has been the issue, 
though in a manner different from what I expected; 
for the stars, though they foretell general results, 
are yet silent on the means by which such are ac- 
complished, being often the very reverse of what 
we expect, or even desire. — But why talk I of 
these mysteries to thee, Oliver, who art in so far 
worse than the very devil, who is thy namesake, 
since he believes and trembles; whereas thou art an 
infidel both to religion and to science, and wilt re- 
main so till thine own destiny is accomplished, which, 
as thy horoscope and physiognomy alike assure me, 
will be by the intervention of the gallows ! ” 

“ And if it indeed shall be so,” said Oliver, in a 
resigned tone of voice, “it will be so ordered, be- 
cause I was too grateful a servant to hesitate at 
executing the commands of my royal master.” 

Louis burst into his usual sardonic laugh. — “ Thou 
hast broke thy lance on mo fairly, Oliver ; and, by 
Our Lady, thou art right, for I defied thee to it. 
But, prithee, tell me in sadness, dost thou discover 
any thing in these men’s measures towards us, which 
may argue any suspicion of ill usage ? ” 

“My liege,” replied Oliver, “your Majesty, and 
yonder learned philosopher, look for augury to the 
stars and heavenly host — I am an earthly reptile, 
and consider but the things connected with my 
vocation. But, methinks, there is a lack of that 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


161 


earnest and precise attention on your Majesty, 
which men show to a welcome guest *of a degree so 
far above them. The Duke, to-night, pleaded weari- 
ness, and saw your Majesty not farther than to the 
street, leaving to the officers of his household the 
task of conveying you to your lodgings. The rooms 
here are hastily and carelessly fitted up — the tapes- 
try is hung up awry — and, in one of the pieces, as 
you may observe, the figures are reversed, and stand 
on their heads, while the trees grow with their roots 
uppermost” 

“ Pshaw ! accident, and the effect of hurry,” said 
the King. “ When did you ever know me concerned 
about such trifles as these ? ” 

“Not on their own -account are they worth no- 
tice,” said Oliver ; “ but as intimating the degree of 
esteem in which the officers of the Duke’s household 
observe your Grace to be held by him. Believe me, 
that had his desire seemed sincere that your recep- 
tion should be in all points marked by scrupulous 
attention, the zeal of his people would have made 
minutes do the work of days — And when,” he 
added, pointing to the basin and ewer, “was the 
furniture of your Majesty’s toilet of other substance 
than silver ? ” 

“ Nay,” said the King, with a constrained smile, 
“that last remark upon the shaving utensils, Oliver, 
is too much in the style of thine own peculiar occu- 
pation to be combated by any one. — True it is, that 
when I was only a refugee, and an exile, I was served 
upon gold-plate by order of the same Charles, who 
accounted silver too mean for the Dauphin, though 
he seems to hold that metal too rich for the King of 
France. Well, Oliver, we will to bed — Our resolu- 
tion has been made and executed ; there is nothing 


1 62 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

to be done but to play manfully the game on which 
we have entered. I know that my cousin of Bur- 
gundy, like other wild bulls, shuts his eyes when he 
begins his career. I have but to watch that moment, 
like one of the tauridors whom we saw at Burgos, and 
his impetuosity places him at my mercy.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE EXPLOSION. 


*Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all, 

When to the startled eye, the sudden glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud. 

Thomson’s Summer . 

The preceding chapter, agreeable to its title, was 
designed as a retrospect, which might enable the 
reader fully to understand the terms upon which 
the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy 
stood together, when the former, moved, partly per 
haps by his belief in astrology, which was repre- 
sented as favourable to the issue of such a measure, 
and in a great measure doubtless by the conscious 
superiority of his own powers of mind over those of 
Charles, had adopted the extraordinary, and upon 
any other ground altogether inexplicable, resolution 
of committing his person to the faith of a fierce and 
exasperated enemy — a resolution also the more rash 
and unaccountable, as there were various examples 
in that stormy time to show, that safe-conducts, 
however solemnly plighted, had proved no assur- 
ance for those in whose favour they were conceived; 
and indeed the murder of the Duke’s grandfather, at 
the Bridge of Montereau, in presence of the father 
of Louis, and at an interview solemnly agreed upon 
for the establishment of peace and amnesty, was a 


164 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

horrible precedent, should the Duke be disposed to 
resort to it. 

But the temper of Charles, though rough, fierce, 
headlong and unyielding, was not, unless in the full 
tide of passion, faithless or ungenerous, faults which 
usually belong to colder dispositions. He was at no 
pains to show the King more courtesy than the laws 
of hospitality positively demanded ; but, on the other 
hand, he evinced no purpose of overleaping their 
sacred barriers. 

On the following morning after the King’s arrival, 
there was a general muster of the troops of the Duke 
of Burgundy, which were so numerous and so excel- 
lently appointed, that, perhaps, he was not sorry to 
have an opportunity of displaying them before his 
great rival. Indeed, while he paid the necessary 
compliment of a vassal to his Suzerain, in declaring 
that these troops were the King’s, and not his own, 
the curl of his upper lip, and the proud glance of 
his eye, intimated his consciousness, that the words 
he used were but empty compliment, and that his 
fine army, at his own unlimited disposal, was as 
ready to march against Paris as in any other direc- 
tion. It must have added to Louis’s mortification, 
that he recognised, as forming part of this host, many 
banners of French nobility, not only of Normandy 
and Bretagne, but of provinces more immediately 
subjected to his own authority, who, from various 
causes of discontent, had joined and made common 
cause with the Duke of Burgundy. 

True to his character, however, Louis seemed to 
take little notice of these malecontents, while, in 
fact, he was revolving in his mind the various means 
by which it might be possible to detach them from 
the banners of Burgundy and bring them back to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


165 

his own, and resolved for that purpose, that he 
would cause those to whom he attached the great- 
est importance to be secretly sounded by Oliver and 
other agents. 

He himself laboured diligently, but at the same 
time cautiously, to make interest with the Duke’s 
chief officers and advisers, employing for that pur- 
pose the usual means of familiar .and frequent notice, 
adroit flattery, and liberal presents ; not, as he re- 
presented, to alienate their faithful services from 
their noble master, but that they might lend their 
aid in preserving peace betwixt France and Bur- 
gundy, — an end so excellent in itself, and so ob- 
viously tending to the welfare of both countries, 
and of the reigning Princes of either. 

The notice of so great and so wise a King was 
in itself a mighty bribe ; promises did much, and 
direct gifts, which the customs of the time permitted 
the Burgundian courtiers to accept without scruple, 
did still more. During a boar-hunt in the forest, 
while the Duke, eager always upon the immediate 
object, whether business or pleasure, gave himself 
entirely up to the ardour of the chase, Louis, un- 
restrained by his presence, sought and found the 
means of speaking secretly and separately to many 
of those who were reported to have most interest 
with Charles, among whom D’Hymbercourt and 
Comines were not forgotten ; nor did he fail to mix 
up the advances which he made towards those two 
distinguished persons with praises of the valour and 
military skill of the first, and of the profound saga- 
city and literary talents of the future historian of 
the period. 

Such an opportunity of personally conciliating, 
or, if the reader pleases, corrupting, the ministers 


r 66 QUENTIN DURWARD 

of Charles, was perhaps what the King had proposed 
to himself, as a principal object of his visit, even 
if his art should fail to cajole the Duke himself. 
The connexion betwixt France and Burgundy. was 
so close, that most of the nobles belonging to the 
latter country had hopes or actual interests con- 
nected with the former, which the favour of Louis 
could advance, or his personal displeasure destroy. 
Formed for this and every other species of intrigue, 
liberal to profusion when it was necessary to ad- 
vance his plans, and skilful in putting the most 
plausible colour upon his proposals and presents, 
the King contrived to reconcile the spirit of the 
proud to their profit, and to hold out to the real or 
pretended patriot the good, of both France and 
Burgundy, as the ostensible motive ; whilst the 
party’s own private interest, like the concealed 
wheel of some machine, worked not the less power- 
fully that its operations were kept out of sight. 
For each man he had a suitable bait, and a proper 
mode of presenting it; he poured the guerdon into 
the sleeve of those who were too proud to extend 
their hand, and trusted that his bounty, though it 
descended like the dew without noise and imper- 
ceptibly, would not fail to produce, in due season, 
a plentiful crop of good will at least, perhaps of 
good offices, to the donor. In fine, although he had 
been long paving the way by his ministers for an 
establishment of such an interest in the Court of 
Burgundy, as should be advantageous to the inter- 
ests of France, Louis’s own personal exertions, 
directed doubtless by the information of which he 
was previously possessed, did more to accomplish 
that object in a few hours, than his agents had 
effected in years of negotiation. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 167 

One man alone the King missed, whom he had 
been particularly desirous of conciliating, and that 
was the Count de Crkvecceur, whose firmness, during 
his conduct as Envoy at Plessis, far from exciting 
Louis’s resentment, had been viewed as a reason 
for making him his own if possible. He was not 
particularly gratified when he learnt that the Count, 
at the head of an hundred lances, was gone towards 
the frontiers of Brabant, to assist the Bishop, in 
case of necessity, against William de la Marck and 
his discontented subjects ; but he consoled himself, 
that the appearance of this force, joined with the 
directions which he had sent by faithful messengers, 
would serve to prevent any premature disturbances 
in that country, the breaking out of which might, 
he foresaw, render his present situation very 
precarious. 

The Court upon this occasion dined in the forest 
when the hour of noon arrived, as was common in 
those great hunting-parties ; an arrangement at this 
time particularly agreeable to the Duke, desirous as 
he was to abridge that ceremonious and deferential 
solemnity with which he was otherwise under the 
necessity of receiving King Louis. In fact, the 
King’s knowledge of human nature had in one par- 
ticular misled him on this remarkable occasion. He 
thought that the Duke would have been inexpres- 
sibly flattered to have received such a mark of con- 
descension and confidence from his liege lord ; but 
he forgot that the dependence of this Dukedom 
upon the Crown of France was privately the sub- 
ject of galling mortification to a Prince so powerful, 
so wealthy, and so proud as Charles, whose aim it 
certainly was to establish an independent kingdom. 
The presence of the King at the Court of the Duke 


1 68 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


of Burgundy, imposed on that prince the necessity 
of exhibiting himself in the subordinate character of 
a vassal, and of discharging many rites of feudal 
observance and deference, which, to one of his 
haughty disposition, resembled derogation from the 
character of a Sovereign Prince, which on all occa- 
sions he affected as far as possible to sustain. 

But although it was possible to avoid much cere- 
mony by haying the dinner upon the green turf, 
with sound of bugles, broaching of barrels, and all 
the freedom of a silvan, meal, it was necessary that 
the evening repast should, even for that very reason, 
be held with more than usual solemnity. 

Previous orders for this purpose had been given, 
and, upon returning to Peronne, King Louis found 
a banquet prepared with such a profusion of splen- 
dour and magnificence, as became the wealth of his 
formidable vassal, possessed as he was of almost 
all the Low Countries, then the richest portion of 
Europe. At the head of the long board, which 
groaned under plate of gold and silver, filled to pro- 
fusion with the most exquisite dainties, sat the 
Duke, and on his right hand, upon a seat more ele- 
vated than his own, was placed his royal guest. 
Behind him stood on one side the son of the Duke of 
Gueldres, who officiated as his grand carver — on 
the other, Le Glorieux, his jester, without whom he 
seldom stirred ; for, like most men of his hasty and 
coarse character, Charles carried to extremity the 
general taste of that age for court-fools and jesters — 
experiencing that pleasure in their display of eccen- 
tricity and mental infirmity, which his more acute, 
but not more benevolent rival, loved better to extract 
from marking the imperfections of humanity in its 
nobler specimens, and finding subject for mirth in 


QUENTLN DURWARD. 


169 

the "fears of the brave, and follies of the wise.” 
And indeed, if the anecdote related by Bran tome 
be true, that a court-fool, having overheard Louis, 
in one of his agonies of repentant devotion, confess 
his accession to the poisoning of his brother, Henry 
Count of Guyenne, divulged it next day at dinner 
before the assembled court, that monarch might 
be supposed rather more than satisfied with the 
pleasantries of professed jesters for the rest of his 
life. 

But, on the present occasion, Louis neglected not 
to take notice of the favourite buffoon of the Duke, 
and to applaud his repartees ; which he did the 
rather, that he thought he saw that the folly of Le 
Glorieux, however grossly it was sometimes dis- 
played, covered more than the usual quantity of 
shrewd and caustic observation proper to his class. 

In fact, Tiel Wetzweiler, called Le Glorieux, 
was by no means a jester of the common stamp. 
He was a tall, fine-looking man, excellent at many 
exercises, which seemed scarce reconcilable with 
mental imbecility, because it must have required 
patience and attention to attain them. He usually 
followed the Duke to the chase and to the fight , 
and at Montl’hery, when Charles was in consider- 
able personal danger, wounded in the throat, and 
likely to be made prisoner by a French knight who 
had hold of his horse’s rein, Tiel Wetzweiler charged 
the assailant so forcibly, as to overthrow him 
and disengage his master. Perhaps he was afraid 
of this being thought too serious a service for a 
person of his condition, and that it might excite him 
enemies among those knights and nobles, who had 
left the care of their master’s person to the court- 
fool. At any rate, he chose rather to be laughed 


170 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


at than praised for his achievement, and made such 
gasconading boasts of his exploits in the battle, that 
most men thought the rescue of Charles was as ideal 
as the rest of his tale ; and it was on this occasion 
he acquired the title of Le Glorieux, (or the boast- 
ful,) by which he was ever afterwards distinguished. 

Le Glorieux was dressed very richly, but with 
little of the usual distinction of his profession ; and 
that little rather of a symbolical than a very literal 
character. His head was not shorn ; on the con- 
trary, he wore a profusion of long curled hair, which 
descended from under his cap, and joining with a 
well-arranged, and handsomely trimmed beard, set 
off features, which, but for a wild lightness of eye, 
might have been termed handsome. A ridge of 
scarlet velvet carried across the top of his cap, 
indicated, rather than positively represented, the 
professional cock’s-comb, which distinguished the 
head-gear of a fool in right of office. His bauble, 
made of ebony, was crested, as usual, with a fool’s 
head, with ass’s ears formed of silver ; but so small, 
and so minutely carved, that, till very closely ex- 
amined, it might have passed for an official baton of 
a more solemn character. These were the only 
badges of his office which his dress exhibited. In 
other respects, it was such as to match with that of 
the most courtly nobles. His bonnet displayed a 
medal of gold ; he wore a chain of the same metal 
around his neck : and the fashion of his rich garments 
was not much more fantastic than those of young 
gallants who have their clothes made in the ex- 
tremity of the existing* fashion. 

To this personage Charles, and Louis, in imita- 
tion of his host, often addressed themselves during 
the entertainment ; and both seemed to manifest, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 171 

by hearty laughter, their amusement at the answers 
of Le Glorieux. 

“ Whose seats he those that are vacant ? ” said 
Charles to the jester. 

“ One of those at least should be mine by right* 
of succession, Charles,” replied Le Glorieux. 

“ Why so, knave ? ” said Charles. 

“ Because they belong to the Sieur D’Hymber- 
court and Des Comines, who are gone so far. to fly 
their falcons, that they have forgot their supper. 
They who would rather look at a kite on the wing 
than a pheasant on the board, are of kin to the fool, 
and he should succeed to the stools, as a part of 
their movable estate.” 

“ That is but a stale jest, my friend Tiel,” said 
the Duke ; “ but, fools or wise men, here come the 
defaulters.” 

As he spoke, Comines > and D’Hymbercourt en- 
tered the room, and, after having made their rever- 
ence to the two Princes, assumed in silence the 
seats which were left vacant for them. 

“ What ho ! sirs,” exclaimed the Duke, address- 
ing them, “ your sport has been either very good 
or very bad, to lead you so far and so late. Sir 
Philip des Comines, you are dejected — hath D’Hym- 
bercourt won so heavy a wager on you ? — You are 
a philosopher, and should not grieve at bad fortune. 
— By Saint George ! D’Hymbercourt looks as sad 
as thou dost. — How now, sirs ? Have you found 
no game ? or have you lost your falcons ? or has a # 
witch crossed your way ? or has the Wild Hunts- 
man 1 met you in the forest? By my honour, you 


1 The famous apparition, sometimes called le Grand Veneur. 
S ull y gives some account of this hunting spectre. 


172 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

seem as if you were come to. a funeral, not a 
festival/’ 

While the Duke spoke, the eyes of the company 
were all directed towards D’Hymbercourt and Des 
Gomines ; and the embarrassment and dejection of 
their countenances, neither being of that class of 
persons to whom such expression of anxious mel- 
ancholy was natural, became so remarkable, that 
the mirth and laughter of the company, which the 
rapid circulation of goblets of excellent wine had 
raised to a considerable height, was gradually hushed ; 
and, without being able to assign any reason for 
such a change in their spirits, men spoke in whis- 
pers to each other, as on the eve of expecting some 
strange and important tidings. 

“ What means this silence, Messires ? ” said the 
Duke, elevating his voice, which was naturally 
harsh. “ If you bring these strange looks, and this 
stranger silence, into festivity, we shall wish you 
had abode in the marshes seeking for herons, or 
rather for woodcocks and howlets.” 

“ My gracious lord,” said Des Comines, “as we 
were about to return hither from the forest, we met 
the Count of Crkvecoeur.” 

“ How ! ” said the Duke ; “ already returned 
from Brabant ? — but he found all well there, 
doubtless ? ” 

“ The Count himself will presently give your 
Grace an account of his news,” said D’Hymber- 
.court, “ which we have heard but imperfectly.” 

“ Body of me, where is the Count ? ” said the 
Duke. 

“ He changes his dress, to wait upon your High- 
ness,” answered D’Hymbercourt. 

<r His dress ? Saint-bleu ! ” exclaimed the impa- 


QUENTIN DURYVARD. 173 

tient Prince, “ what care I for his dress ? I think 
you have conspired with him to drive me mad ! ” 

“ Or rather, to be plain,” said Des Comines, “ he 
wishes to communicate these news at a private 
audience.” 

“ Teste-dieu ! my Lord King,” said Charles, “ this 
is ever the way our counsellors serve us — If they 
have got hold of aught which they consider as im- 
portant for our ear, they look as grave upon the 
matter, and are as proud of their burden as an ass 
of a new packsaddle. — Some one bid Crkvecoeur 
come to us directly ! — He comes from the frontiers 
of Liege, and we t at least,” (he laid some emphasis 
on the pronoun,) “ have no secrets in that quarter 
which we would shun to have proclaimed before the 
assembled world.” 

All perceived that the Duke had drunk so much 
wine as to increase the native obstinacy of his 
disposition ; and though many would willingly have 
suggested that the present was neither a time for 
hearing news, nor for taking counsel, yet all knew 
the impetuosity of his temper too well to venture 
on farther interference, and sat in anxious expec- 
tation of the tidings which the Count might have to 
communicate. 

A brief interval intervened, during which the 
Duke remained looking eagerly to the door, as if 
in a transport of impatience, whilst the guests sat 
with their eyes bent on the table, as if to conceal 
their curiosity and anxiety. Louis alone maintain- 
ing perfect composure, continued his conversation 
alternately with the grand carver and with the 
jester. 

At length Crkvecoeur entered, and was presently 
saluted by the hurried question of his master, 


*74 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ What news from Liege and Brabant, Sir Count ! 

— the report of your arrival has chased mirth from 
our table — We hope your actual presence will bring 
it back to us.” 

“My liege and master,” answered the Count, 
in a firm, but melancholy tone, “ the news which 
I bring you are fitter for the council board than the 
feasting table.” 

“ Out with them, man, if they were tidings from 
Antichrist I ” said the Duke ; “ but I can guess them 

— the Liegeois are again in mutiny.” 

“ They are, my lord,” said Crbvecoeur, very 
gravely. 

“ Look there, man,” said the Duke, “ I have hit 
at once on what you have been so much afraid to 
mention to me — the harebrained burghers are 
again in arms. It could not be in better time, for 
we may at present have the advice of our own 
Suzerain,” bowing to King Louis, with eyes which 
spoke the most bitter, though suppressed resent- 
ment, “ to teach us how such mutineers should be 
dealt with. — Hast thou more news in thy packet ? 
Out with them, and then answer for yourself why 
you went not forward to assist the Bishop.” 

“ My lord, the farther tidings are heavy for me 
to tell, and will be afflicting to you to hear. — No 
aid of mine, or of living chivalry, could have availed 
the excellent Prelate. William de la Marck, united 
with the insurgent Liegeois, has taken his castle 
of Schonwaldt, and murdered him in his own 
hall.” 

“ Murdered him ! ” repeated the Duke, in a deep 
and low tone, but which nevertheless was heard 
from the one end of the hall in which they were 
assembled to the other ; “ thou hast been imposed 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 175 

upon, Crbvecoeur, by some wild report — it is 
impossible J ” 

“ Alas ! my lord ! ” said the Count, “ I have it 
from an eyewitness, an archer of the King of 
France’s Scottish Guard, who was in the hall when 
the murder was committed by William de la Marck’s 
order.” 

“And who was doubtless aiding and abetting in 
the horrible sacrilege ! ” exclaimed the Duke, starting 
up and stamping with his foot with such fury, that 
he dashed in pieces the footstool which was placed 
before him. “ Bar the doors of this hall, gentle- 
men — secure the windows — let no stranger stir 
from his seat, upon pain of instant death ! — Gen- 
tlemen of my chamber, draw your swords.” And 
turning upon Louis, he advanced his own hand 
slowly and deliberately to the hilt of his weapon, 
while the King, without either showing fear or 
assuming a defensive posture, only said, 

“These news, fair cousin, have staggered your 
reason.” 

“ No ! ” replied the Duke, in a terrible tone, 
“ but they have awakened a just resentment, which 
I have too long suffered to be stifled by trivial con- 
siderations of circumstance and place. AJurderer 
of thv brother ! — rebel against thy parent ! — tyrant 
over thy subjects I — treacherous ally ! — perjured 
King ! — dishonoured gentleman ! — thou art in my 
power, and I thank God for it.” 

“Bather thank my folly,” said the King; “for 
when we met on equal terms at Montl’hery, me- 
thinks you wished yourself farther from me than we 
are now.” 

The Duke still held his hand on the hilt of his 
sword, but refrained to draw his weapon, or to 


176 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


strike a foe, who offered no sort of resistance which 
could in anywise provoke violence. 

Meanwhile, wild and general confusion spread 
itself through the hall. The doors were now fas- 
tened and guarded by order of the Duke ; but several 
of the French nobles, few as they were in number, 
started from their seats, and prepared for the de- 
fence of their Sovereign. Louis had spoken not a 
word either to Orleans or Dunois since they were 
liberated from restraint at the Castle of Loches. 
if it could be termed liberation, to be dragged in 
King Louis’s train, objects of suspicion evidently, 
rather than of respect and regard ; but, neverthe- 
less, the voice of Dunois was first heard above the 
tumult, addressing himself to the Duke of Bur- 
gundy. — “ Sir Duke, you have forgotten that you 
are a vassal of France, and that we, your guests, are 
Frenchmen. If you lift a hand against our Mon- 
arch, prepare to sustain the utmost effects of our 
despair ; for, credit me, we shall feast as high with 
the blood of Burgundy as we have done with its 
wine. — Courage, my Lord of Orleans — and you, 
gentlemen of France, form yourselves round Dunois, 
and do as he does ! ” 

It was in that moment when a King might see 
upon what tempers he could certainly rely. The 
few independent nobles and knights who attended 
Louis, most of whom had only received from him 
frowns of discountenance, unappalled by the dis- 
play of infinitely superior force, and the certainty 
of destruction in case they came to blows, hastened 
to array themselves around Dunois, and, led by 
him, to press towards the head of the table where 
the contending Princes were seated. 

On the contrary, the tools and agents whom 


QUENTIN DUltWARD. 


177 


Louis had dragged forward out of their fitting and 
natural places, into importance which was not due 
to them, showed cowardice and cold heart, and, 
remaining still in their seats, seemed resolved not 
to provoke their fate by intermeddling, whatever 
might become of their benefactor. 

The first of the more generous party was the 
venerable Lord Crawford, who, with an agility 
which no one would have expected at his years, 
forced his way through all opposition, (which was 
the less violent, as many of the Burgundians, either 
from a point of honour, or a secret inclination to 
prevent Louis’s impending fate, gave way to him,) 
and threw himself boldly between the King and the 
Duke. He then placed his bonnet, from which his 
white hair escaped in dishevelled tresses, upon one 
side of his head — his pale cheek and withered brqw 
coloured, and his aged eye lightened with all the 
fire of a gallant who is about to dare some despe- 
rate action. His cloak was flung over one shoulder, 
and his action intimated his readiness to wrap it 
about his left arm, while he unsheathed his sword 
with his right. 

“ I have fought for his father and his grandsire,” 
that was all he said, “ and, by Saint Andrew, end 
the matter as it will, I will not fail him at this 
pinch.” 

What has taken some time to narrate, happened, 
in fact, with the speed of light ; for so soon as the 
Duke assumed his threatening posture, Crawford 
had thrown himself betwixt him and the object of 
his vengeance ; and the French gentlemen, draw- 
ing together as fast as they could, were crowding 
to the same point 

The Duke of Burgundy still remained with his 


i 7 8 


QUENTIN DUE-WARD. 


hand on his sword, and seemed in the act of giving 
the signal for a 'general onset, which must neces- 
sarily have ended in the massacre of the weaker 
party, when Crkvecceur rushed forward, and ex- 
claimed, in a voice like a trumpet, — “ My liege 
Lord of Burgundy, beware what you do ! This is 
your hall — you are the King’s vassal — do not 
spill the blood of your guest on your hearth, the 
blood of your Sovereign on the throne you have 
erected for him, and to which he came under your 
safeguard. For the sake of your house’s honour, do 
not attempt to revenge one horrid murder by an- 
other yet worse ! ” 

“ Out of my road, Cr&vecoeur,” answered the 
Duke, “ and let my vengeance pass ! — Out of my 
path ! — The wrath of Kings is to be dreaded like 
that of Heaven.” 

“ Only when, like that of Heaven, it is just ,” 
answered Crkvecceur, firmly — “ Let me pray of 
you, my lord, to rein the violence of your temper, 
however justly offended. — And for you, my Lords 
of France, where resistance is unavailing, let me 
recommend you to forbear whatever may lead 
towards bloodshed.” 

“He is right,” said Louis, whose coolness for- 
sook him not in that dreadful moment, and who 
easily foresaw, that if a brawl should commence, 
more violence would be dared and done in the heat 
of blood, than was likely to be attempted if peace 
were preserved. — “ My cousin Orleans — kind Du- 
nois — and you, my trusty Crawford — bring not 
on ruin and bloodshed by taking offence too hastily. 
Our cousin the Duke is chafed at the tidings of 
the death of a near and loving friend, the venerable 
Bishop of Liege, whose slaughter we lament as he 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


179 


does. Ancient, and, unhappily, recent subjects of 
jealousy, lead him to suspect us of having abetted 
a crime which our bosom abhors. Should our host 
murder us on this spot' — us, his King and his kins- 
man, under a false impression of our being acces- 
sory to this unhappy accident, our fate will be little 
lightened, but, on the contrary, greatly aggravated, 
by your stirring, — Therefore, stand back, Crawford 

— Were it my last word, I speak as a King to his 
officer, and demand obedience — Stand back, and, if 
it is required, yield up your sword. I command 
you to do so, and your oath obliges you to obey.” 

“ True, true, my lord,” said Crawford, stepping 
back, and returning to the sheath the blade he had 
half drawn — “ It may be all very true ; but, by my 
honour, if I were at the head of threescore and ten 
of my brave fellows, instead of being loaded with 
more than the like number of years, I would try 
whether I could have some reason out of these fine 
gallants, with their golden chains and looped-up 
bonnets, with braw-warld dyes and devices on 
them.” 

The Duke stood with his eyes fixed on the 
ground for a considerable space, and then said, 
with bitter irony, “Crevecoeur, you say well; and 
it concerns our honour, that our obligations to this 
great King, our honoured and loving guest, be not 
so hastily adjusted, as in our hasty anger we had 
at first proposed. We will so act, that all Europe 
shall acknowledge the justice of our proceedings. 

— Gentlemen of France, you must render up your 
arms to my officers ! Your master has broken the 
truce, and has no title to take farther benefit of 
it. In compassion, however, to your sentiments of 
honour, and in respect to the rank which he hath 


180 QUENTIN DU R WARD. 

disgraced, and the race from which he hath degen- 
erated, we ask not our cousin Louis’s sword.” 

“ Not one of us,” said Dunois, “ will resign our 
weapon, or quit this hall, unless we are assured of 
at least our King’s safety, in life and limb.” 

“ Nor will a man of the Scottish Guard,” ex- 
claimed Crawford, “lay down his arms, save at 
the command of the King of France, or his High 
Constable.” 

“ Brave Dunois,” said Louis, “ and you, my trusty 
Crawford, your zeal will do me injury instead of 
benefit. — I trust,” he added with dignity, “ in my 
rightful cause, more than in a vain resistance, 
which would but cost the lives of my best and 
bravest. — Give up your swords — the noble Bur- 
gundians, who accept such honourable pledges, will 
be more able than you are to protect both you and 
me. — - Give up your swords — It is I who command 
you.” 

It was thus that, in this dreadful emergency, 
Louis showed the promptitude of decision, and 
clearness of judgment, which alone could have 
saved his life. He was aware, that until actual 
blows were exchanged, he should have the assist- 
ance of most of the nobles present to moderate the 
fury of their Prince ; but that were a melee once 
commenced, he himself and his few adherents must 
be instantly murdered. At the same time, his worst 
enemies confessed, that his demeanour had in it 
nothing either of meanness, or cowardice. He 
shunned to aggravate into frenzy the wrath of the 
Duke; but he neither deprecated nor seemed to 
fear it, and continued to look on him with the 
calm and fixed attention with which a brave man 
eyes the menacing gestures of a lunatic, whilst 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


181 


conscious that his own steadiness and composure 
operate as an insensible and powerful check on 
the rage even of insanity. 

Crawford, at the King’s command, threw his 
sword to Crkvecosur, saying, “Take it! and the 
devil give you joy of it. — It is no dishonour to the 
rightful owner who yields it, for we have had no 
fair play.” 

“ Hold, gentlemen,” said the Duke, in a broken 
voice, as one whom passion had almost deprived 
of utterance, “retain your swords; it is sufficient 
you promise not to use them. — And you, Louis 
of Yalois, must regard yourself as my prisoner, 
until you are cleared of having abetted sacrilege 
and murder. Have him to the Castle — Have him 
to Earl Herbert’s Tower. Let him have six gentle- 
men of his train to attend him, such as he shall 
choose. — My Lord of Crawford, your guard must 
leave the Castle, and shall be honourably quartered 
elsewhere. Up with every drawbridge, and down 
with every portcullis — Let the gates of the town 
be trebly guarded — Draw the floating-bridge to 
the right-hand side of the river — Bring round the 
Castle my band of Black Walloons, and treble the 
sentinels on every post ! — You, D’Hymbercourt, 
look that patrols of horse and foot make the round 
of the town every half-hour during the night, and 
every hour during the next day, — if indeed such 
ward shall be necessary after daybreak, for it is 
like we may be sudden in this matter. — Look to 
the person of Louis, as you love your life ! ” 

He started from the table in fierce and moody 
haste, darted a glance of mortal enmity at the King, 
and rushed out of the apartment. 

“ Sirs,” said the King, looking with dignity 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


182 

around him, “grief for the death of his ally hath 
made your Prince frantic. I trust you know better 
your duty, as knights and noblemen, than to abet 
him in his treasonable violence against the person 
of his liege Lord.” 

At this moment was heard in the streets the 
sound of drums beating, and horns blowing, to call 
out the soldiery in every direction. 

“We are,” said Crevecoeur, who acted as the 
Marshal of the Duke’s household, “ subjects of 
Burgundy, and must do our duty as such. Our 
hopes and prayers, and our efforts, will not be 
wanting to bring about peace and union between 
your Majesty and our liege Lord. Meantime, we 
must obey his commands. These other lords and 
knights will be proud to contribute to the con- 
venience of the illustrious Duke of Orleans, of the 
brave Dunois, and the stout Lord Crawford. I 
myself must be your Majesty’s chamberlain, and 
bring you to your apartments in other guise than 
would be my desire,- remembering the hospitality 
of Plessis. You have only to choose your atten- 
dants, whom the Duke’s commands limit to six.” 

“ Then,” said the King, looking around him, and 
thinking for a moment, - — “I desire the attendance 
of Oliver le Dain, of a private of my Life-Guard, 
called Balafrd, who may be unarmed if you will — 
of Tristan l’Hermite, with two of his people — and 
my right loyal and trusty philosopher, Martius 
Galeotti.” 

“ Your Majesty’s will shall be complied with in 
all points,” said the Count de Crevecoeur. “ Gale- 
otti,” he added, after a moment’s enquiry, “is, I 
understand, at present supping in some buxom 
company, but he shall instantly be sent for; the 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 183 

others will obey your Majesty’s command upon the 
instant.” 

“Forward, then, to the new abode, which the 
hospitality of our cousin provides for us,” said the 
King. “We know it is strong, and have only to 
hope it may be in a corresponding degree safe.” 

“ Heard you the choice which King Louis has 
made of his attendants?” saidLe Glorieux to Count 
Cr&vecceur apart, as they followed Louis from the 
Hall. 

“ Surely, my merry gossip,” replied the Count, — 
“ What hast thou to object to them ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing — only they are a rare election 1 
— A panderly barber — a Scottish hired cut-throat — 
a chief hangman and his two assistants, and a 
thieving charlatan. — I will along with you, Crkve- 
coeur, and take a lesson in the degrees of roguery, 
from observing your skill in marshalling them. The 
devil himself could scarce have summoned such a 
synod, or have been a better president amongst 
them.” 

Accordingly, the all-licensed jester, seizing the 
Count’s arm familiarly, began to march along with 
him, while, under a strong guard, yet forgetting 
no semblance of respect, he conducted the King 
towards his new apartment. 1 


1 Note Y. 


CHAPTER XL 


UNCERTAINTY. 

Then happy low, lie down ; 

Uneasy lies the hea4 that wears a crown. 

Henry IV. — Part Second. 


Forty men-at-arms, carrying alternately naked 
swords and blazing torches, served as the escort, or 
rather the guard, of King Louis, from the town- 
hall of Peronne to the Castle ; and as he entered 
within its darksome and gloomy strength, it seemed 
as if a voice screamed in his ear that warning which 
the Florentine has inscribed over the portal of the 
infernal regions, “ Leave all hope behind ! ” 

At that moment, perhaps, some feeling of remorse 
might have crossed the King’s mind, had he thought 
on the hundreds, nay thousands, whom, without 
cause, or on light suspicion, he had committed to 
the abysses of his dungeons, deprived of all hope of 
liberty, and loathing even the life to which they 
clung by animal instinct. 

The broad glare of the torches outfacing the pale 
moon, which was more obscured on this than on the 
former night, and the red smoky light which they 
dispersed around the ancient buildings, gave a darker 
shade to that huge donjon, called the Earl Her- 
bert’s ' Tower. It was the same that Louis had 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


185 


viewed with misgiving presentiment on the preced- 
ing evening, and of which he was now doomed to 
become an inhabitant, under the terror of what vio- 
lence soever the wrathful temper of his overgrown 
vassal might tempt him to exercise in those secret 
recesses of despotism. 

To aggravate the King’s painful feelings, he saw, 
as he crossed the court-yard, several bodies, over 
each of which had been hastily flung a military 
cloak. He was not long of discerning that they 
were corpses of slain archers of the Scottish Guard, 
who having disputed, as the Count Crkvecceur 
informed him, the command given them to quit the 
post near the King’s apartments, a brawl had 
ensued between them and the Duke’s Walloon body- 
guards, and before it could be composed by the 
officers on either side, several lives had been lost. 

“ My trusty Scots ! ” said the King, as he looked 
upon this melancholy spectacle ; “ had they brought 
only man to man, all Flanders, ay, and Burgundy 
to boot, had not furnished champions to mate 
you.” 

“ Yes, an it please your . Majesty,” said Balafr^, 
who attended close behind the King, “ Maistery 
mows the meadow — few men can fight more than 
two at once. I myself never care to meet three, 
unless it be in the way of special duty, when one 
must not stand to count heads.” 

“ Art thou there, old acquaintance ? ” said the 
King, looking behind him ; “ then I have one true 
subject with me yet.” 

“ And a faithful minister, whether in your coun- 
cils, or in his offices about your royal person,” whis- 
pered Oliver le Dain. 

“We are all faithful,” said Tristan l’Hermite, 


1 86 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


gruffly ; “ for should they put to death your Ma- 
jesty, there is no one of us whom they would suf- 
fer to survive you, even if we would.” 

“ Now, that is what I call good corporal hail for 
fidelity,” said Le Glorieux, who, as already men- 
tioned, with the restlessness proper to an infirm 
brain, had thrust himself into their company. 

Meanwhile, the Seneschal, hastily summoned, 
was turning with laborious effort the ponderous key 
which opened the reluctant gate of the huge Gothic 
Keep, and was at last fain to call for the assistance 
of one of Crkvecoeur’s attendants. When they had 
succeeded, six men entered with torches, and showed 
the way through a narrow and winding passage, 
commanded at different points by shot-holes from 
vaults and casements constructed behind, and in the 
thickness of the massive walls. At the end of this 
passage, arose a stair of corresponding rudeness, 
consisting of huge blocks of stone, roughly dressed 
with the hammer, and of unequal height. Having 
mounted this ascent, a strong iron-clenched door 
admitted them to what had been the great hall of 
the donjon, lighted but very faintly even during the 
daytime, (for the apertures, diminished in appear- 
ance by the excessive thickness of the walls, re- 
sembled slits rather than windows,) and now, but for 
the blaze of the torches, almost perfectly dark. 
Two or three bats, and other birds of evil presage, 
roused by the unusual glare, flew against the lights, 
and threatened to extinguish them ; while the Sen- 
eschal formally apologized to the King, that the 
State-hall had not been put in order, such was the 
hurry of the notice sent to him ; and adding, that, 
in truth, the apartment had not been in use for 
twenty years, and rarely before that time, so far as 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 187 

ever he had heard, since the time of King Charles 
the Simple. 

“ King Charles the Simple ! ” echoed Louis ; “ I 
know the history of the Tower now. — He was here 
murdered by his treacherous vassal, Herbert, Earl 
of Yermandois — So say our annals. I knew there 
was something concerning the Castle of Peronne 
which dwelt on my mind, though I could not recall 
the circumstance. — Here , then, my predecessor was 
slain ? ” 

“ Not here, not exactly here, and please your 
Majesty,” said the old Seneschal, stepping with the 
eager haste of a cicerone, who shows the curiosities 
of such a place — “ Not here, but in the side-chamber 
a little onward, which opens from your Majesty’s 
bedchamber.” 

He hastily opened a wicket at the upper end of 
the hall, which led into a bedchamber, small, as is 
usual in such old buildings ; but, even for that rea- 
son, rather more comfortable than the waste hall 
through which they had passed. Some hasty pre- 
parations had been here made for the King’s ac- 
commodation. Arras had been tacked up, a fire 
lighted in the rusty grate, which had been long un- 
used, and a pallet laid down for those gentlemen 
who were to pass the night in his chamber, as was 
then usual. 

“ We will get beds in the hall for the rest of your 
attendants,” said the garrulous old man ; “ but we 
have had such brief notice, if it please your Ma- 
jesty — And if it please your Majesty to look upon 
this little wicket behind the arras, it opens into the 
little old cabinet in the thickness of the wall where 
Charles was slain ; and there is a secret passage 
from below, which admitted the men who were to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


1 88 

deal with him. And your Majesty, whose eyesight 
I hope is better than mine, may see the blood still 
on the oak-floor, though the thing, was done five 
hundred years ago.” 

While he thus spoke, he kept fumbling to open 
the postern of which he spoke, until the King said, 
“Forbear, old man — forbear but a little while, 
when thou mayst have a newer tale to tell, and 
fresher blood to show. — My Lord of Cr&vecoeur, 
what say you ? ” 

“ I can but answer, Sire, that these two interior 
apartments are as much at your Majesty’s disposal 
as those in your own Castle at Plessis, and that 
Crkvecoeur, a name never blackened by treachery 
or assassination, has the guard of the exterior de- 
fences of it.” 

“But the private passage into that closet, of 
which the old man speaks ? ” This King Louis 
said in a low and anxious tone, holding Crkvecceur’s 
arm fast with one hand, and pointing to the wicket 
door with the other. 

“It must be some dream of Mornay’s,” said 
Crkvecoeur, “ or some old and absurd tradition of 
the place ; — but we will examine.” 

He was about to open the closet door, when Louis 
answered, “ No, Cr&vecceur, no — Your honour is 
sufficient warrant. — But what will your Duke do 
with me, Crkvecoeur ? He cannot hope to keep me 
long a prisoner ; and — in short, give me your opi- 
nion, Crkvecoeur.” 

“ My Lord and Sire,” said the Count, “ how the 
Duke of Burgundy must resent this horrible cruelty 
on the person of his near relative and ally, is for 
your Majesty to judge; and what right he may 
have to consider it as instigated by your Majesty’s 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


189 


emissaries, you only can know. But my master is 
noble in his disposition, and made incapable, even 
by the very strength of his passions, of any under- 
hand practices. Whatever he does, will be done 
in the face of day, and of the two nations. And I 
can but add, that it will be the wish of every coun- 
sellor around him — excepting perhaps one — that 
he should behave in this matter with mildness and 
generosity, as well as justice.” 

“ Ah ! Crbvecceur,” said Louis, taking his hand 
as if affected by some painful recollections, “how 
happy is the Prince who has counsellors near him, 
who can guard him against the effects of his own 
angry passions ! Their names will be read in golden 
letters, when the history of his reign is perused. — 
Noble Crkvecoeur, had it been my lot to have such 
as thou art about my person ! ” 

“ It had in that case been your Majesty’s study 
to have got rid of them as fast as you could,” said 
Le Glorieux. 

“Aha ! Sir Wisdom, art thou there ? ” said Louis, 
turning round, and instantly changing the pathetic 
tone in which he had addressed Crkvecceur, and 
adopting with facility one which had a turn of 
gaiety in it — “ Hast thou followed us hither ? ” 

“ Ay, sir,” answered Le Glorieux, “ Wisdom must fol- 
low in motley, where Folly leads the way in purple.” 

“How shall I construe that, Sir Solomon,” an- 
swered Louis — “ Wouldst thou change conditions 
with me ? ’ 

“ Not I, by my halidome,” quoth Le Glorieux, 
“ if you would give me fifty crowns to boot.” 

“ Why, wherefore so ? — Methinks I could be 
well enough contented, as princes go, to have thee 
for my king.” 


190 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


“ Ay, Sire,” replied Le Glorieux ; “ but the ques- 
tion is, whether, judging of your Majesty’s wit from 
its having lodged you here, I should not have cause 
to be ashamed of having so dull a fool.” 

“ Peace, sirrah ! ” said the Count of Crkvecoeur ; 
“ your tongue runs too fast.” 

“ Let it take its course,” said the King ; “ I know 
of no such fair subject of raillery, as the follies of 
those who should know better. — Here, my saga- 
cious friend, take this purse of gold, and with it the 
advice, never to be so great a fool as to deem your- 
self wiser than other people. Prithee, do me so 
much favour as to enquire after my astrologer, Mar- 
tius Galeotti, and send him hither to me presently.” 

“ I will, without fail, my Liege,” answered the 
jester ; “ and I wot well I shall find him at Jan 
Dopplethur’s ; for philosophers, as well as fools, 
know where the best wine is sold.” 

“ Let me pray for free entrance for this learned 
person through your guards, Seignior de Creve- 
cceur,” said Louis. 

“ For his entrance, unquestionably,” answered 
the Count ; “ but it grieves me to add, that my 
instructions do not authorize me to permit any one 
to quit your Majesty’s apartments. — I wish your 
Majesty a good night,” he subjoined, “ and will 
presently make such arrangements in the outer hall, 
as may put the gentlemen who are to inhabit it. 
more at their ease.” 

“ Give yourself no trouble for them, Sir Count,” 
replied the King, “ they are men accustomed to set 
hardships at defiance ; and, to speak truth, except- 
ing that I wish to see Galeotti, I would desire as 
little further communication from without this night 
as may be consistent with your instructions.” 


QUENTIN DURWAHD. 


191 


These are, to leave your Majesty,” replied 
Crkvecoeur, “ undisputed possession of your own 
apartments. Such are my master’s orders.” 

“ Your master, Count Crkvecoeur,” answered Louis, 
“ whom I may also term mine, is a right gracious 
master. — My dominions,” he added, “ are somewhat 
shrunk in compass, now that they have dwindled 
to an old hall and a bedchamber; hut they are still 
wide enough for all the subjects which I can at 
present boast of.” 

The Count of Crkveoaeur took his leave ; and 
shortly after, they could hear the noise of the sen- 
tinels moving to their posts, accompanied with the 
word of command from the officers, and the hasty 
tread of the guards who were relieved. At length 
all became still, and the only sound which filled the 
air, was the sluggish murmur of the river Somme, 
as it glided, deep and muddy, under the walls of 
the castle. 

“ Go into the hall, my mates,” said Louis to his 
train ; “ hut do not lie down to sleep. Hold your- 
selves in readiness, for there is still something to 
be done to-night, and that of moment.” 

Oliver and Tristan retired to the hall accordingly, 
in which Le Balafrd and the Provost-Marshal’s two 
officers had remained, when the others entered the 
bedchamber. They found that those without had 
thrown fagots enough upon the fire, to serve the 
purpose of light and heat at the same time, and, 
wrapping themselves in their cloaks, had sat down 
on the floor, in postures which variously expressed 
the discomposure and dejection of their minds. 
Oliver and Tristan saw nothing better to be done, 
than to follow their example ; and, never very good 
friends in the days of their court-prosperity, they were 


192 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


both equally reluctant to repose confidence in each 
other upon this strange and sudden reverse of fortune. 
So that the whole party sat in silent dejection. 

Meanwhile, their master underwent, in the re- 
tirement of his secret chamber, agonies that might 
have atoned for some of those which had been im- 
posed by his command. He paced the room with 
short and unequal steps, often stood still and clasped 
his hands together, and gave loose, in short, to agi- 
tation, which, in public, he had found himself able 
to suppress so successfully. At length, pausing, 
and wringing his hands, he planted himself opposite 
to the wicket-door, which had been pointed out by 
old Mornay as leading to the scene of the murder 
of one of his predecessors, and gradually gave voice 
to his feelings in a broken soliloquy. 

“ Charles the Simple — Charles the Simple ! — 
what will posterity call the Eleventh Louis, whose 
blood will probably soon refresh the stains of thine ? 
Louis the Fool — Louis the Driveller — Louis the 
Infatuated — are all terms too slight to mark the 
extremity of my idiocy ! To think these hotheaded 
Liegeois, to whom rebellion is as natural as their 
food, would remain quiet — to dream that the Wild 
Beast of Ardennes would, for a moment, be inter- 
rupted in his career of force and bloodthirsty bru- 
tality — to suppose that I could use reason and 
arguments to any good purpose with Charles of 
Burgundy, until I had tried the force of such ex- 
hortations with success upon a wild bull — Fool, and 
double idiot that I was ! But the villain Martius 
shall not escape — He has been at the bottom of this, 
he and the vile priest, the detestable Balue. 1 If I 

1 Louis kept his promise of vengeance against Cardinal La 
Balue, whom he always blamed as having betrayed him to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


193 


ever get out of this danger, I will tear from his head 
the Cardinal's cap, though I pull the scalp along with 
it ! But the other traitor is in my hands — lam yet 
king enough — have yet an empire roomy enough 
— for the punishment of the quack-salving, word- 
mongering, star-gazing, lie -coining impostor, who 
has at once made a prisoner and a dupe of me ! — 
The conjunction of the constellations — ay, the 
conjunction — He must talk nonsense which would 
scarce gull a thrice-sodden sheep’s-head, and I must 
be idiot enough to think I understood him ! But 
we shall see presently what the conjunction hath 
really boded. But first let me to my devotions.” 

Above the little door, in memory perhaps of the 
deed which had been done within, was a rude niche, 
containing a crucifix cut in stone. Upon this em- 
blem the King fixed his eyes, as if about to kneel, 
but stopped short, as if he applied to the blessed 
image the principles of worldly policy, and deemed 
it rash to approach its presence without having 
secured the private intercession of some supposed 
favourite. He therefore turned from the crucifix 
as unworthy to look upon it, and selecting from the 
images with which, as often mentioned, his hat was 
completely garnished, a representation of the Lady 
of Clery, knelt down before it, and made the follow- 
ing extraordinary prayer; in which, it is to be ob- 
served, the grossness of his superstition induced 


Burgundy. After he had returned to his own kingdom, he 
caused his late favourite to be immured in one of the iron cages 
at Loches. These were constructed with horrible ingenuity, so 
that a person of ordinary size could neither stand up at his full 
height nor lie lengthwise in them. Some ascribe this horrid de- 
vice to Balue himself. At any rate, he was confined in one of these 
dens for eleven years, nor did Louis permit him to be liberated till 
his last illness. 


194 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


him, in some degree, to consider the virgin of Clery 
as a different person from the Madonna of Embrun, 
a favourite idol, to whom he often paid his vows. 

“ Sweet Lady of Clery,” (c) he exclaimed, clasping 
his hands and beating his breast while he spoke — 
‘blessed Mother of Mercy! thou who art omnipo- 
tent with Omnipotence, have compassion with me a 
sinner ! It is true, that I have something neglected 
thee for thy blessed sister of Embrun ; but I am a 
King, my power is great, my wealth- boundless ; and, 
were it otherwise, I would double the gabelle on my 
subjects, rather than not pay my debts to you both. 
Undo these iron doors — fill up these tremendous 
moats — lead me, as a mother leads a child, out of 
this present and pressing danger ! If I have given 
thy sister the county of Boulogne, to be held of her 
for ever, have I no means of showing devotion to 
thee also ? Thou shalt have the broad and rich pro- 
vince of Champagne ; and its vineyards shall pour their 
abundance into thy convent. 1 had promised the pro- 
vince to my brother Charles ; but he, thou knowest, is 
dead — poisoned by that wicked Abb£ of Saint John 
d’Angely, whom, if I live, I will punish ! -- I pro- 
mised this once before, but this time I will keep my 
word. — If I had any knowledge of the crime, believe, 
dearest patroness, it was because I knew no better 
method of quieting the discontents of my kingdom. 
O, do not reckon that old debt to my account to-day ; 
but be, as thou hast ever been, kind, benignant, and 
easy to be entreated! Sweetest Lady, work with 
thy child, that he will pardon all past sins, and one 
— one little deed which I must do this night — nay, 
it is no sin, dearest Lady of Clery — no sin, but an 
act of justice privately administered ; for the villain 
is the greatest impostor that ever poured falsehood 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


195 


into a Prince’s ear, and leans besides to the filthy 
heresy of the Greeks. He is not deserving of thy 
protection ; leave him to my care ; and hold it as 
good service that I rid the world of him, for the 
man is a necromancer and wizard, that is not worth 
thy thought and care — a dog, the extinction of 
whose life ought to be of as little consequence in 
thine eyes, as the treading out a spark that drops 
from a lamp, or springs from a fire. Think not of 
this little matter, gentlest, kindest Lady, but only 
consider how thou canst best aid me in my troubles! 
and I here bind my royal signet to thy effigy, in 
token that I will keep my word concerning the 
county of Champagne, and that this shall be the 
last time I will trouble thee in affairs of blood, 
knowing thou art so kind, so gentle, and so 
tender-hearted.” 

After this extraordinary contract with the object 
of his adoration, Louis recited, apparently with deep 
devotion, the seven penitential psalms in Latin, and 
several aves and prayers especially belonging to the 
service of the Virgin. He then arose, satisfied that 
he had secured the intercession of the Saint to whom 
he had prayed, the rather, as he craftily reflected, 
that most of the sins for which he had requested 
her mediation on former occasions had been of a 
different character, and that, therefore, the Lady of 
Clery was less likely to consider him as a hardened 
and habitual shedder of blood, than the other saints 
whom he had more frequently made confidants of 
his crimes in that respect . 1 

When he had thus cleared his conscience, or 
rather whited it over like a sepulchre, the King 
thrust his head out at the door of the hall, and sum- 
Note VI. — Prayer of Louis XI. 


9 6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


moned Le Balafr4 into his apartment. “ My good 
soldier,” he said, “ thou hast served me long, and 
hast had little promotion. We are here in a case 
where I may either live or die ; but I would not 
willingly die an ungrateful man, or leave, so far as 
the saints may place it in my power, either a friend 
or an enemy unrecompensed. Now, I have a friend 
to be rewarded, that is thyself — an enemy to be 
punished according to his deserts, and that is the 
base, treacherous villain, Martius Galeotti, who, by 
his impostures and specious falsehoods, has trained 
me hither into the power of my mortal enemy, 
with as firm a purpose of my destruction, as ever 
butcher had of slaying the beast which he drove to 
the shambles.” 

“ I will challenge him on that quarrel, since they 
say he is a fighting blade, though he looks some- 
what unwieldy,” said Le BalafrA “ I doubt not 
but the Duke of Burgundy is so much a friend to 
men of the sword, that he will allow us a fair field 
within some reasonable space ; and if your Majesty 
live so long, and enjoy so much freedom, you shall 
behold me do battle in your right, and take as 
proper a vengeance on this philosopher as your 
heart could desire.” 

“ I commend your bravery and your devotion to 
my service,” said the King. “ But this treacherous 
villain is a stout man-at-arms, and I would not will- 
ingly risk thy life, my brave soldier.” 

“ I were no brave soldier, if it please your Ma- 
jesty,” said Balafr^, “ if I dared not face a better 
man than he. A fine thing it would be for me, who 
can neither read nor write, to be afraid of a fat lur- 
dane, who has done little else all his life ! ” 

“Nevertheless,” said the King, “it is not our 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


197 


pleasure so to put thee in venture, BalafrA This 
traitor comes hither, summoned by our command. 
We would have thee, so soon as thou canst find 
occasion, close up with him, and smite him under 
the fifth rib — Dost thou understand me ? ” 

“ Truly I do,” answered Le Balafrd ; “ but, if 
it please your Majesty, this is a matter entirely out 
of my course of practice. I could not kill you a dog, 
unless it were in hot assault, or pursuit, or upon 
defiance given, or such like.” 

“Why sure ^AoM.dost not pretend to tenderness 
of heart ? ” said the King ; “ thou who hast been 
first in storm and siege, and most eager, as men tell 
me, on the pleasures and advantages which are 
gained on such occasions by the rough heart and 
the bloody hand ? ” 

“ My lord,” answered Le Balafr^, “ I have neither 
feared nor spared your enemies, sword in hand. 
And an assault is a desperate matter, under risks 
which raise a man’s blood so, that, by Saint Andrew, 
it will not.settle for an hour or two, — which I call 
a fair license for plundering after a storm. .And 
God pity us poor soldiers, who are first driven mad 
with danger, and then madder with victory. I have 
heard of a legion consisting entirely of saints ; and 
methinks it would take them all to pray and inter- 
cede for the rest of the army, and for all who wear 
plumes and corslets, buff-coats and broadswords. 
But what your Majesty purposes is out of my 
course of practice, though I will never deny that it 
has been wide enough. As for the astrologer, if 
he be a traitor, let him e’en die a traitor’s death — 
I will neither meddle nor make with it. Your Ma- 
jesty has your Provost, and two of his Marshal’s- 
men without, who are more fit for dealing with him 


198 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


than a Scottish gentleman of my family and stand- 
ing in the service.” 

“You say well,” said the King; “but, at least, 
it belongs to thy duty to prevent interruption, and 
to guard the execution of my most just sentence.” 

“ I will do so against all Peronne,” said Le Bala- 
frA “ Your Majesty need not doubt my fealty in 
that which I can reconcile to my conscience, which, 
for mine own convenience and the service of your 
royal Majesty, I can vouch to be a pretty large one 

— at least, I know I have done.some deeds for your 
Majesty, which I would rather have eaten a handful 
of my own dagger than I would have done for any 
else.” 

“ Let that rest,” said the King ; “ and hear you 

— when Galeotti is admitted, and the door shut on 
him, do you stand to your weapon, and guard the 
entrance on the inside of the apartment. Let no 
one intrude — that is all I require of you. Go hence, 
and send the Provost-Marshal to me.” 

Balafrd left the apartment accordingly, and in a 
minjate afterwards Tristan l’Hermite entered from 
the hall. 

“Welcome, gossip,” said the King; “what think- 
est thou of our situation ? ” 

“ As of men sentenced to death,” said the Pro- 
vost-Marshal, “ unless there come a reprieve from 
the Duke.” 

“ Reprieved or not, he that decoyed us into this 
snare shall go our fourrier to the next world, to take 
up lodgings for us,” said the King, with a grisly 
and ferocious smile. “ Tristan, thou hast done many 
an act of brave justice — finis — I should have 
said funis — coronat opus. Thou must stand by 
me to the end.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


199 


“ I will, my liege,” said Tristan ; (C I am but a 
plain fellow, but I am grateful. I will do my duty 
within these walls, or elsewhere; and while I live, 
your Majesty’s breath shall pour as potential a note 
of condemnation, and your sentence be as literally 
executed, as when you sat on your own throne. 
They may deal with me the next hour for it if they 
will — I care not.” 

“ It is even what I expected of thee, my loving 
gossip,” said Louis ; “ but hast thou good assis- 
tance ? — the traitor is strong and able-bodied, and 
will doubtless be clamorous for aid. The Scot will 
do nought but keep the door ; and well that he can 
be brought to that, by flattery and humouring. Then 
Oliver is good for nothing but lying, flattering, and 
suggesting dangerous counsels; and, Ventre Saint- 
dieu ! I think is more like one day to deserve the 
halter himself, than to use it to another. Have you 
men, think you, and means, to make sharp and sure 
work ? ” 

“ I have Trois-Eschelles and Petit-Andrd with 
me,” said he — “ men so expert in their office, that 
out of three men, they would hang up one ere his 
two companions were aware. And we have all 
resolved to live or die with your Majesty, knowing 
we shall have as short breath to draw when you are 
gone, as ever fell to the lot of any of our patients. 
— But what is to be our present subject, an it please 
your Majesty ? I love to be sure of my man ; for, 
as your Majesty is pleased sometimes to remind 
me, I have now and then mistaken the criminal, and 
strung up in his place an honest labourer, who had 
given your Majesty no offence.” 

“ Most true,” said the other. “ Know then, Tris- 
tan, that the condemned person is Martius Galeotti. 


200 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

— You start, but it is even as I say. The villain 
hath trained us all hither by false and treacherous 
representations, that he might put us into the hands 
of the Duke of Burgundy without defence.” 

“ But not without vengeance ! ” said Tristan ; 
“ were it the last act of my life, I would sting him 
home like an expiring wasp, should I be crushed to 
pieces on the next instant ! ” 

“ I know thy trusty spirit,” said the King, “ and 
the pleasure which, like other good men, thou dost 
find in the discharge of thy duty, since virtue, as 
the schoolmen say, is its own reward. But away, 
and prepare the priests, for the victim approaches.” 

‘‘Would you have it done in your own presence, 
my gracious liege?” said Tristan. 

Louis declined this offer; but charged the Pro- 
vost-Marshal to have every thing ready for the 
punctual execution of his commands the moment 
the astrologer left his apartment; “for,” said the 
King, “ I will see the villain once more, just to 
observe how he bears himself towards the master 
whom he has led into the toils. I shall love to see 
the sense of approaching death strike the colour 
from that ruddy cheek, and dim that eye which 
laughed as it lied. — O, that there were but another 
with him, whose counsels aided his prognostica- 
tions ! But if I survive this — look to your scarlet, 
my Lord Cardinal ! for Rome shall scarce protect 
you — be it spoken under favour of Saint Peter and 
the blessed Lady of Clery, who is all over mercy. 

— Why do you tarry ? Go get your grooms ready. 
I expect the villain instantly. I pray to Heaven he 
take not fear and come not ! — that were indeed a 
baulk. Begone, Tristan — thou wert not wont to 
be so slow when business was to be done.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


20 r 

“ On the contrary, an it like your Majesty, you 
were ever wont to say that I was too fast, and mis- 
took your purpose, and did the job on the wrong 
subject. Now, please your Majesty to give me a 
sign, just when you part with Galeotti for the night, 
whether the business goes on or no. I have known 
your Majesty once or twice change your mind, and 
blame me for over-despatch.” 1 

“ Thou suspicious creature,” answered King Louis, 
“ I tell thee I will not change my mind ; — but to 
silence thy remonstrances, observe, if I say to the 
knave at parting, ‘There is a Heaven above us!’ 
then let the business go on ; but if I say, ‘ Go in 
peace/ you will understand that my purpose is 
altered.” 

“ My head is somewhat of the dullest out of my 
own department,” said Tristan THermite. “ Stay, 
let me rehearse — If you bid him depart in peace, 
I am to have him dealt upon ? ” 

“ No, no — idiot, no!” said the King; “in that 
case you let him pass free. But if I say, * There is 
a Heaven above us ! ’ up with him a yard or two 
nearer the planets he is so conversant with.” 

“ I wish we may have the means here,” said the 
Provost. 

“Then up with him or down with him, it 
matters not which,” answered the King, grimly 
smiling. 

“ And the body,” said the Provost, “ how shall 
we dispose of it ? ” 

1 Varillas, in a history of Louis XI., observes, that his Provost- 
Marshal was often so precipitate in execution as to slay another 
person instead of him whom the King had indicated. This always 
occasioned a double execution, for the wrath or revenge of Louis 
was never satisfied with a vicarious punishment. 


202 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“ Let me see an instant,” said the King — “ the 
windows of the hall are too narrow ; but that pro- 
jecting oriel is wide enough. We will over with 
him into the Somme, and put a paper on his breast, 
with the* legend, f Let the justice of the King pass 
toll-free.’ The Duke’s officers may seize it for 
duties if they dare.” 

The Provost-Marshal left the apartment of Louis, 
and summoned his two assistants to council in an 
embrasure in the great hall, where Trois-Eschelles 
stuck a torch against the wall to give them light. 
They discoursed in whispers, little noticed by Oliver 
le Dain, who seemed sunk in dejection, and Le 
Balafrd, who was fast asleep. 

“ Comrades,” said the Provost to his executioners, 
“ perhaps you have thought that our vocation was 
over, or that, at least, we were more likely to be 
the subjects of the duty of others, than to have any 
more to discharge on our own parts. But courage, 
my mates ! our gracious master has reserved for us 
one noble cast of our office, and it must be gal- 
lantly executed, as by men who would live in 
history.” 

“Ay, I guess how it is,” said Trois-Eschelles ; 
“ our patron is like the old Kaisars of Rome, who, 
when things came to an extremity, or, as we would 
say, to the ladder foot with them, were wont to se- 
lect from their own ministers of justice some ex- 
perienced person, who might spare their sacred 
persons from the awkward attempts of a novice or 
blunderer in our mystery. It was a pretty custom 
for Ethnics ; but, as a good catholic, I should make 
some scruple at laying hands on the Most Christian 
King.” 

“ Nay, but, brother, you are ever too scrupulous,” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


203 


said Petit- Andrd. “ If he issues word and warrant 
for his own execution, I see not how we can in duty 
dispute it. He that dwells at Rome must obey the 
Pope — the Marshal’s-men must do their master’s 
bidding, and he the King’s.” 

“ Hush, you knaves ! ” said the Provost-Marshal, 
“there is here no purpose concerning the King’s 
person, but only that of the Greek heretic pagan 
and Mahomedan wizard, Martius Galeotti.” 

“Galedtti!” answered Petit-Andr£; “that comes 
quite natural. I never knew one of these legerde- 
main fellows, who pass their life, as one may say, 
in dancing upon a tight rope, but what they came 
at length to caper at the end of one — tchick ! ” 

“ My only concern is,” said Trois-Eschelles, look- 
ing upwards, “ that the poor creature must die 
without confession.” 

“ Tush ! tush ! ” said the Provost-Marshal, in 
reply, “ he is a rank heretic and necromancer — 
a whole college of priests could not absolve him 
from the doom he has deserved. Besides, if he 
hath a fancy that way, thou hast a gift, Trois- 
Eschelles, to serve him for ghostly father thyself. 
But, what is more material, I fear you must use 
your poniards, my mates ; for you have not here 
the fitting conveniences for the exercise of your 
profession.” 

“Now, our Lady of the Isle of Paris forbid,” 
said Trois-Eschelles, “ that the King’s command 
should find me destitute of my tools ! I always 
wear around my body Saint Francis’s cord, doubled 
four times, with a handsome loop at the further 
end of it; for I am of the company of Saint Francis, 
and may wear his cowl when I am in extremis — 

I thank God and the good fathers of Saumur.” 


204 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


“ And for me,” said Petit- Andr^, “ I have always 
in my budget a handy block and sheaf, or a pulley 
as they call it, with a strong screw for securing it 
where I list, in case we should travel where trees 
are scarce, or high-branched from the ground. I 
have found it a great convenience.” 

“ That will suit as well,” said the Provost-Mar- 
shal ; “ you have but to screw your pulley into 
yonder beam above the door, and pass the rope 
over it. I will keep the fellow in some Conversa- 
tion near the spot until you adjust the noose under 
his chin, and then ” 

“ And then we run up the rope,” said Petit- 
Andr^, “ and, tchick ! our Astrologer is so far in 
Heaven, that he hath not a foot on earth.” 

“ But these gentlemen,” said Trois-Eschelles, look- 
ing towards the chimney, “ do not these help, and 
so take a handsel of our vocation ? ” 

“ Hem ! no,” answered the Provost ; “ the bar- 
ber only contrives mischief, which he leaves other 
men to execute ; and for the Scot, he keeps the 
door when the deed is a-doing, which he hath not 
spirit or quickness sufficient to partake in more 
actively — every one to his trade.” 

With infinite dexterity, and even a sort of profes- 
sional delight which sweetened the sense of their 
own precarious situation, the worthy executioners 
of the Provost’s mandates adapted their rope and 
pulley for putting in force the sentence which had 
been uttered against Galeotti by the captive Mon- 
arch — seeming to rejoice that that last action was 
to be one -so consistent with their past life. Tris- 
tan l’Hermite sat eyeing their proceedings with 
a species of satisfaction ; while Oliver paid no at- 
tention to them whatever; and Ludovic Lesly, if, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


205 


awaked by the bustle, he looked upon them at all, 
considered them as engaged in matters entirely 
unconnected with his own duty, and for which he 
was not to be regarded as responsible in one way 
or other . 1 

1 The author has endeavoured to give to the odious Tristan 
l’Hermite a species of dogged and brutal fidelity to Louis, similar 
to the attachment of a bull-dog to his master. With all the 
atrocity of his execrable character, he was certainly a man of 
courage, and was, in his youth, made knight on the breach of 
Fronsac, with a great number of other young nobles, by the hon- 
our-giving hand of the elder Dunois, the celebrated hero of 
Charles the Yth’s reign. 


CHAPTEK XII. 


RECRIMINATION. 


Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou servest 
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids 
The friends who drudge for him, as the blind man 
Was aided by the guide, who lent his shoulder 
O'er rough and smooth, until he reach’d the brink 
Of the fell precipice — then hurl’d him downward. 

Old Play. 

When obeying the command, or rather the request, 
of Louis, — for he was in circumstances in which, 
though a monarch, he could only request Le Glo- 
rieux to go in search of Martius Galeotti, — the 
jester had no trouble in executing his commission, 
betaking himself at once to the best tavern in Pe- 
ronne, of which he himself was rathe* more than 
an occasional frequenter, being a great admirer of 
that species of liquor which reduced all other men’s 
brains to a level with his own. 

He found, or rather observed, the Astrologer in 
the corner of the public drinking-room — stove, as 
it is called in German and Flemish, from its prin- 
cipal furniture — sitting in close colloquy with a 
female in a singular, and something like a Moorish 
or Asiatic garb, who, as Le Glorieux approached 
Martius, rose as in the act to depart. 

“ These,” said the stranger, “ are news on which 
you may rely with absolute certainty;” and with 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


207 


that disappeared among the crowd of guests who 
sat grouped at different tables in the apartment. 

“ Cousin Philosopher,” said the jester, presenting 
himself, “ Heaven no sooner relieves one sentinel 
than it sends another to supply the place. One 
fool being gone, here I come another, to guide you 
to the apartments of Louis of France.” 

“ And art thou the messenger ? ” said Martius, 
gazing on him with prompt apprehension, and dis- 
covering at once the jester’s quality, though less 
intimated, as we have before noticed, than was 
usual, by his external appearance. 

“ Ay, sir, and like your learning,” answered Le 
Glorieux; “when Power sends Folly to entreat the 
approach of Wisdom, ’tis a sure sign what foot the 
patient halts upon.” 

“ How if I refuse to come, when summoned at so 
late an hour by such a messenger ? ” said Galeotti. 

“ In that case we will consult your ease, and carry 
you,” said Le Glorieux. “ Here are half a score of 
stout Burgundian yeomen at the door, with whom He 
of Cr&vecceur has furnished me to that effect. For 
know, that my friend Charles of Burgundy and I 
have not taken away our kinsman Louis’s crown, 
which he was ass enough to put into our power, but 
have only filed and dipt it a little ; and, though re- 
duced to the size of a spangle, it is still pure gold. 
In plain terms, he is still paramount over his own 
people, yourself included, and Most Christian King 
of the old dining-hall in the Castle of Peronne, to 
which you, as his liege subject, are presently obliged 
to repair.” 

“I attend you, sir,” said Martius Galeotti, and 
accompanied Le Glorieux accordingly — seeing, per- 
haps, that no evasion was possible. 


208 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“ Ay, sir,” said the Fool, as they went towards the 
Castle, “ you do well ; for we treat our kinsman as 
men use an old famished lion in his cage, and thrust 
him now and then a calf to mumble, to keep his old 
jaws in exercise.” 

“Do you mean,” said Martius, “that the King 
intends me bodily injury ? ” 

“ Nay, that you can guess better than I,” said the 
jester ; “ for, though the night be cloudy, I warrant 
you can see the stars through the mist. I know 
nothing of the matter, not I — only my mother al- 
ways told me to go warily near an old rat in a trap, 
for he was never so much disposed to bite.” 

The Astrologer asked no more questions, and Le 
Glorieux, according to the custom of those of his 
class, continued to run on in a wild and disordered 
strain of sarcasm and folly mingled together, until 
he delivered the philosopher to the guard at the 
castle-gate of Peronne ; where he was passed from 
warder to warder, and at length admitted within 
Herbert’s Tower. 

The hints of the jester had not been lost on 
Martius Galeotti, and he saw something which 
seemed to confirm them in the look and manner 
of Tristan, whose mode of addressing him, as he 
marshalled him to the King’s bedchamber, was 
lowering, sullen, and ominous. A close observer 
of what passed on earth, as well as among the 
heavenly bodies, the pulley and the rope also 
caught the Astrologer’s eye ; and as the latter 
was in a state of vibration, he concluded that 
some one who had been busy adjusting it had 
been interrupted in the work by his sudden arrival. 
All this he saw, and summoned together his sub- 
tilty to evade the impending danger, resolved, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


209 


should he find that impossible, to defend himself 
to the last against whomsoever should assail him. 

Thus resolved, and with a step and look corre- 
sponding to the determination he had taken, Mar- 
tius presented himself before Louis, alike unabashed 
at the miscarriage of his predictions, and undis- 
mayed at the Monarch’s anger, and its probable 
consequences. 

“ Every good planet be gracious to your Majesty ! ” 
said Galeotti, with an inclination almost Oriental in 
manner — “ Every evil constellation withhold their 
influences from my royal master ! ” 

“ Methinks,” replied the King, “ that when you 
look around this apartment, when you think where 
it is situated, and how guarded, your wisdom might 
consider that my propitious stars had proved faith- 
less, and that each evil conjunction had already done 
its worst. Art thou not ashamed, Martius Galeotti, 
to see me here, and a prisoner, when you recollect 
by what assurances I was lured hither ? ” 

“And art thou not ashamed, my royal Sire?” re- 
plied the philosopher ; “ thou, whose step in science 
was so forward, thy apprehension so quick, thy per- 
severance so unceasing, — art thou not ashamed to 
turn from the first frown of fortune, like, a craven 
from the first clash of arms ? Didst thou propose to 
become participant of those mysteries which raise 
men above the passions, the mischances, the pains, 
the sorrows of life, a state only to be attained by rival- 
ling the firmness of the ancient Stoic, and dost thou 
shrink from the first pressure of adversity, and for- 
feit the glorious prize for which thou didst start as 
a competitor, frightened out of the course, like a 
scared racer, by shadowy and unreal evils ? ” 

“ Shadowy and unreal ! frontless as thou art ! " 


2io QUENTIN % DU R WARD. 

exclaimed the King, “is this dungeon unreal? — • 
the weapons of the guards of my detested enemy 
Burgundy, which you may hear clash at the gate, 
are those shadows ? — What, traitor, are real evils, 
if imprisonment, dethronement, and danger of life, 
are not so ? ” 

“ Ignorance — ignorance, my brother, and preju- 
dice,” answered the sage, with great firmness, “ are 
the only real evils. Believe me, that Kings in the 
plenitude of power, if immersed in ignorance and 
prejudice, are less free than sages in a dungeon, and 
leaded with material chains. Towards this true hap- 
piness it is mine to guide you — be it yours to attend 
to my instructions.” 

“ And it is to such philosophical freedom that your 
lessons would have guided me ? ” said the King, very 
bitterly. “ I would you had told me at Plessis, that 
the dominion promised me so liberally was an em- 
pire over my own passions ; that the success of which 
I was assured, related to my progress in philosophy ; 
and that I might become as wise and as learned as 
a strolling mountebank of Italy ! I might surely 
have attained this mental ascendency at a more 
moderate price than that of forfeiting the fairest 
crown in Christendom, and becoming tenant of a 
dungeon in Peronne ! Go, sir, and think not to 
escape condign punishment — There is a Heaven 
above us ! ” 

“ I leave you not to your fate,” replied Martius. 
“ until I have vindicated, even in your eyes, dark- 
ened as they are, that reputation, a brighter gem 
than the brightest in thy crown, and at which the 
world shall wonder, ages after all the race of Capet 
are mouldered into oblivion in the charnels of Saint 
Denis.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


21 


“ Speak on,” said Louis ; “ thine impudence can- 
not make me change my purposes or my opinion — 
Yet as I may never again pass judgment as a King, 
I will not censure thee unheard. Speak, then — 
though the best thou canst say will be to speak the 
truth. Confess that I am a dupe, thou an impostor, 
thy pretended science a dream, and the planets 
which shine above us as little influential of our des- 
tiny, as their shadows,- when reflected in the river, 
are capable of altering its course.” 

“ And how know’st thou,” answered the Astro- 
loger, boldly, “ the secret influence of yonder blessed 
lights ? Speak’st thou of their inability to influence 
waters, when yet thou know’st that even the weak- 
est, the moon herself, — weakest because nearest to 
this wretched earth of ours, — holds under her do- 
mination, not such poor streams as the Somme, but 
the tides of the mighty ocean itself, which ebb and 
increase as her disk waxes and wanes, and watch 
her influence as a slave waits the nod of a Sultana ? 
And now, Louis of Valois, answer my parable in 
turn — Confess, art thou not like the foolish pas- 
senger, who becomes wroth with his pilot because he 
cannot bring the vessel into harbour without expe- 
riencing occasionally the adverse force of winds and 
currents ? I could indeed point to thee the pro- 
bable issue of thine enterprise as prosperous, but it 
was in the power of Heaven alone to conduct thee 
thither ; and if the path be rough and dangerous, 
was it in my power to smooth or render 'it more 
safe ? Where is thy wisdom of yesterday, which 
taught thee so truly to discern that the ways of 
destiny are often ruled to our advantage, though in 
opposition to our wishes ? ” 

“ You remind me — you remind me,” «aid the 


212 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


King, hastily, “of one specific falsehood. You 
foretold, yonder Scot should accomplish his enter- 
prise fortunately for my interest and honour; and 
thou knowest it has so terminated, that no more 
mortal injury could I have received, than from the 
impression which the issue of that affair is like to 
make on the excited brain of the Mad Bull of Bur- 
gundy. This is a direct falsehood — Thou canst 
plead no evasion here — canst refer to no remote 
favourable turn of the tide, for which, like an idiot 
sitting on the bank until the river shall pass away, 
thou wouldst have me wait contentedly. — Here 
thy craft deceived thee — Thou wert weak enough 
to make a specific prediction, which has proved 
directly false.” 

“ Which will prove most firm and true,” answered 
the Astrologer, boldly. “ I would desire no greater 
triumph of art over ignorance, than that prediction 
and its accomplishment will afford. I told thee 
he would be faithful in any honourable commission 
— Hath he not been so ? — I told thee he would be 
scrupulous in aiding any evil enterprise — Hath he 
not proved so ? If you doubt it, go ask the Bohe- 
mian, Hayraddin Maugrabin.” 

The King here coloured deeply with shame and 
anger. 

“ I told thee,” continued the Astrologer, “ that 
the conjunction of planets under which he set forth, 
augured danger to the person — and hath not his 
path been beset by danger ? — I told thee that it 
augured an advantage to the sender — and of that 
thou wilt soon have the benefit.” 

“Soon have the benefit!” exclaimed the King; 
“Have I not the result already, in disgrace and 
imprisonment ? ” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


213 


“ No,” answered the Astrologer, “ the End is 
not as yet — thine own tongue shall ere long con- 
fess the benefit which thou hast received, from the 
manner in which the messenger bore himself in 
discharging thy commission.” 

“ This is too — too insolent,” said the King, “ at 
once to deceive and to insult — But hence ! — think 
not my wrongs shall be unavenged. — There is 
a Heaven above us ! ” 

Galeotti turned to depart. “ Yet stop,” said 
Louis, — “ thou bearest thine imposture bravely out 
— Let me hear your answer to one question, and 
think ere you speak. — Can thy pretended skill 
ascertain the hour of thine own death ? ” 

“ Only by referring to the fate of another,” said 
Galeotti. 

“ I understand not thine answer,” said Louis. 

“ Know then, 0 King,” said Martius, “ that this 
only I can tell with certainty concerning mine own 
death, that it shall take place exactly twenty-four 
hours before that of your Majesty.” 1 

“ Ha ! say’st thou ? ” said Louis, his countenance 
again altering. — “ Hold — hold — go not — wait one 
moment. — Saidst thou, my death should follow 
thine so closely ? ” 

“ Within the space of twenty-four hours,” re- 
peated Galeotti, firmly, “ if there be one sparkle 
of true divination in those bright and mysterious 
intelligences, which speak, each on their courses, 
though without a tongue. — I wish your Majesty 
good rest.” 

“Hold — hold — go not,” said the King, taking 
him by the arm, and leading him from the door. 
“Martius Galeotti, I have been a kind master to 
1 Note VII. — Martius Galeotti. 


214 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

thee — enriched thee — made thee my friend — my 
companion — the instructor of my studies. — Be open 
with me, I entreat you. — Is there aught in this art 
of yours in very deed ? — Shall this Scot’s mission 
be, in fact, propitious to me ? — And is the measure 
of our lives so very — very nearly matched ? Con- 
fess, my good Martius, you speak after the trick 
of your trade — Confess, I pray you, and you shall 
have no displeasure at my hand. I am in years — 
a prisoner — likely to be deprived of a kingdom — 
to one in my condition truth is worth kingdoms, 
and it is from thee, dearest Martius, that I must 
look for this inestimable jewel.” 

“ And I have laid it before your Majesty,” said 
Galeotti, “ at the risk that, in brutal passion, you 
might turn upon me and rend me.” 

“ Who, I, Galeotti ? ” replied Louis mildly ; 
“ Alas ! thou mistakest me ! — Am I not captive, — 
and should not I be patient, especially since my 
anger can only show my impotence ? — Tell me then 
in sincerity — Have you fooled me ? — Or is your 
science true, and do you truly report it ? ” 

“ Your Majesty will forgive me if I reply to 
you,” said Martius Galeotti, “ that time only — 
time and the event, will convince incredulity. It 
suits ill the place of confidence which I have held 
at the council-table of the renowned conqueror, 
Matthias Corvinus of Hungary — nay, in the cabi- 
net of the Emperor himself — to reiterate assurances 
of that which I have advanced as true. If you will 
not believe me, .1 can but refer to the course of 
events. A day, or two days’ patience, will prove 
or disprove what I have averred concerning the 
young Scot ; and I will be contented to die on the 
wheel, and have my limbs broken joint by joint, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


215 


if your Majesty have not advantage, and that in a 
most important degree, from the dauntless conduct 
of .that Quentin Durward. But if I were to die 
under such tortures, it would be well your Majesty 
should seek a ghostly father ; for, from the moment 
my last groan is drawn, only twenty-four hours 
will remain to you for confession and penitence.” 

Louis continued to keep hold of Galeotti’s robe 
as he led him towards the door, and pronounced as 
he opened it, in a loud voice, “ To-morrow we’ll talk 
more of this. Go in peace, my learned father — 
Go in peace — Go in peace ! ” 

He repeated these words three times ; and, still 
afraid that the Provost-Marshal might mistake his 
purpose* he led the Astrologer into the hall, hold- 
ing fast his robe, as if afraid that he should be torn 
from him, and put to death before his eyes. He did 
not unloose his grasp until he had not only re- 
peated again and again the gracious phrase, “ Go in 
peace,” but even made a private signal to the Pro- 
vost-Marshal, to enjoin a suspension of all proceed- 
ings against the person of the Astrologer. 

Thus did the possession of some secret informa- 
tion, joined to audacious courage and readiness of 
wit, save Galeotti from the most imminent danger ; 
and thus was Louis, the most sagacious as well as 
the most vindictive, amongst the monarch s of the 
period, cheated of his revenge by the influence of 
superstition upon a selfish temper, and a mind to 
which, from the consciousness of many crimes, the 
fear of death was peculiarly terrible. 

He felt, however, considerable mortification at 
being obliged to relinquish his purposed vengeance ; 
and the disappointment seemed to be shared by his 
satellites, to whom the execution was to have been 


21 6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


committed. Le Balafrd alone, perfectly indifferent 
on the subject, so soon as the countermanding sig- 
nal was given, left the door at which he had posted 
himself, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. 

The Provost-Marshal, as the group reclined them- 
selves to repose in the hall after the King retired 
to his bedchamber, continued to eye the goodly form 
of the Astrologer, with the look of the mastiff watch- 
ing a joint of meat which the cook had retrieved 
from his jaws, while his attendants communicated 
to each other in brief sentences their characteristic 
sentiments. 

“ The poor blinded necromancer,” tvhispered Trois- 
Eschelles, with an air of spiritual unction and com- 
miseration, to his comrade, Petit- Andrd, “hath lost 
the fairest chance of expiating some of his vile sor- 
ceries, by dying through means of the cord of the 
blessed Saint Francis ! and I had purpose, indeed, 
to leave the comfortable noose around his neck, to 
scare the foul fiend from his unhappy carcass.” 

“ And I,” said Petit-Andr^, “ have missed the 
rarest opportunity of knowing how far a weight 
of seventeen stone will stretch a three-plied cord ! 
— It would have been a glorious experiment in our 
line, — and the jolly old boy would have died so 
easily ! ” 

While this whispered dialogue was going for- 
ward, Martius, who had taken the opposite side of 
the huge stone fire-place, round which the whole 
group was assembled, regarded them askance, and 
with a look of suspicion. He first put his hand into 
his vest, and satisfied himself that the handle of a 
very sharp double-edged poniard, which he always 
carried about him, was disposed conveniently for 
his grasp ; for, as we have already noticed, he was, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


21 7 


though now somewhat unwieldy, a powerful, ath- 
letic man, and prompt and active at the use of his 
weapon. Satisfied that this trusty instrument was 
in readiness, he next took from his bosom a scroll 
of parchment, inscribed with Greek characters, and 
marked with cabalistic signs, drew together the 
wood in the fire-place, and made a blaze by which 
he could distinguish the features and attitude of all 
who sat or lay around — the heavy and deep slum- 
bers of the Scottish soldier, who lay motionless, 
with his rough countenance as immovable as if it 
were cast in bronze — the pale and anxious face of 
Oliver, who at one time assumed the appearance 
of slumber, and again opened his eyes and raised 
his head hastily, as if stung by some internal throe, 
or awakened by some distant sound — the discon- 
tented,* savage, bull-dog aspect of the Provost, who 
looked 

“ frustrate of his will. 

Not half sufficed, and greedy yet to kill ” — 

while the background was filled up by the ghastly 
hypocritical countenance of Trois-Eschelles, whose 
eyes were cast up towards Heaven, as if he was in- 
ternally saying his devotions ; and the grim drollery 
of Petit- Andrd, who amused himself with mimick- 
ing the gestures and wry faces of his comrade be- 
fore he betook himself to sleep. 

Amidst these vulgar and ignoble countenances, 
nothing could show to greater advantage than the 
stately form, handsome mien, and commanding, fea- 
tures of the Astrologer, who might have passed for 
one of the ancient magi, imprisoned in a den of 
robbers, and about to invoke a spirit to accomplish 
his liberation. And, indeed, had he been distiii- 


218 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


guished by nothing else than the beauty of the 
graceful and flowing beard which descended over 
the mysterious roll which he held in his hand, one 
might have been pardoned for regretting that so 
noble an appendage had been bestowed on one, who 
put both talents, learning, and the advantages of 
eloquence, and a majestic person, to the mean pur- 
poses of a cheat and an impostor. 

Thus passed the night in Count Herbert’s Tower, 
in the Castle of Peronne. When the first light of 
dawn penetrated the ancient Gothic chamber, the 
King summoned Oliver to his presence, who found 
the Monarch sitting in his nightgown, and was 
astonished at the alteration which one night of mor- 
tal anxiety had made in his looks. He would have 
expressed some anxiety on the subject, but the King 
silenced him by entering into a statement of the 
various modes by which he had previously endeav- 
oured to form friends at the Court of Burgundy, 
and which Oliver was charged to prosecute so- soon 
as he should be permitted to stir abroad. And 
never was that wily minister more struck with the 
clearness of the King’s intellect, and his intimate 
knowledge of all the springs which influence hu- 
man actions, than he was during that memorable 
consultation. 

About two hours afterwards, Oliver accordingly 
obtained permission from the Count of Crbvecceur 
to go out and execute the commissions which his 
master had intrusted him with ; and Louis, sending 
for the Astrologer, in whom he seemed to have 
reflewed his faith, held with him, in like manner, a 
long consultation, the issue of which appeared to 
give him more spirits and confidence than . he had 
at first exhibited ; so that he dressed himself, and 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


219 


received the morning compliments of Cr&vecceur with 
a calmness, at which the Burgundian Lord could 
not help wondering, the rather that he had already 
heard that the Duke had passed several hours in a 
state of mind which seemed to render the King’s 
safety very precarious. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


UNCERTAINTY. 

Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark, 

That reels amid the strife of meeting currents. 

Old Play. 

If the night passed by Louis was carefully anxious 
and agitated, that spent by the Duke of Burgundy, 
,who had at no time the same mastery over his pas- 
sions, and, indeed, who permitted them almost a 
free and uncontrolled dominion over his actions, 
was still more disturbed. 

According to the custom of the period, two of his 
principal and most favoured counsellors, D’Hym- 
bercourt and Des Comines, shared his bedchamber, 
couches being prepared for them near the bed of the 
prince. Their attendance was never more necessary 
than upon this night, when, distracted by sorrow, 
by passion, by the desire of revenge, and by the 
sense of honour, which forbade him to exercise it 
upon Louis in his present condition, the Duke’s 
mind resembled a volcano in eruption, which throws 
forth all the different contents of the mountain, 
mingled and molten into one burning mass. 

He refused to throw off his clothes, or to make 
any preparation for sleep ; but spent the night in 
a succession of the most violent bursts of passion. 
In some paroxysms he talked incessantly to his 
attendants so thick and so rapidly, that they were 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


221 


really afraid his senses would give way ; choosing 
for his theme, the merits and the kindness of heart 
of the murdered Bishop of Liege, and recalling all 
the instances of mutual kindness, affection, and con- 
fidence, which had passed between them, until he 
had worked himself into such a transport of grief, 
that he threw himself upon his face in the bed, and 
seemed ready to choke with the sobs and tears which 
he endeavoured to stifle. Then starting from the 
couch, he gave vent at once to another and more 
furious mood, and traversed the room hastily, utter- 
ing incoherent threats, and still more incoherent 
oaths of vengeance, while, stamping with his foot, 
according to his customary action, he invoked Saint 
George, Saint Andrew, and whomsoever else he 
held most holy, to bear witness, that he would take 
bloody vengeance on De la Marck, on the people 
of Liege, and on him who was the author of the 
whole. — These last threats, uttered more obscurely 
than the others, obviously concerned the person of 
the King ; and at one time the Duke expressed his 
determination to send for the Duke of Normandy, 
the brother of the King, and with whom Louis was 
on the worst terms, in order to compel the captive 
monarch to surrender either the Crown itself, or 
some of its most valuable rights and appanages. 

Another day and night passed in the same stormy 
and fitful deliberations, or rather rapid transitions 
of passion ; for the Duke scarcely ate or drank, 
never changed his dress, and, altogether, demeaned 
himself like one in whom rage might terminate in 
utter insanity. By degrees he became more com- 
posed, and began to hold, from time to time, con- 
sultations with his ministers, in which much was 
proposed, but nothing resolved on. Comines assures 


222 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

us, that at one time a courier was mounted in readi- 
ness to depart for the purpose of summoning the 
Duke of Normandy; and in that event, the prison 
of the French monarch would probably have been 
found, as in similar cases, a brief road to his grave. 

, At other times, when Charles had exhausted his 
fury, he sat with his features fixed in stern and rigid 
immobility, like one who broods over some desper- 
ate deed to which he is as yet unable to work up 
his resolution. And unquestionably it would have 
needed little more than an insidious hint from any 
of the counsellors who attended his person, to have 
pushed the Duke to some very desperate action. 
But the nobles of Burgundy, from the sacred 
character attached to the person of a King, and a 
Lord Paramount, and from a regard to the public 
faith, as well as that of their Duke, which had 
been pledged when Louis threw himself into their 
power, were almost unanimously inclined to recom- 
mend moderate measures ; and the arguments 
which D’Hymbercourt and Des Comines had now 
and then ventured to insinuate during the night, 
were, in the cooler hours of the next morning, 
advanced and urged by Crkvecoeur and others. 
Possibly their zeal in behalf of the King might 
not be entirely disinterested. Many, as we have 
mentioned, had already experienced the bounty of 
the King ; others had either estates or pretensions 
in France, which placed them a little under his 
influence ; and it is certain that the treasure, 
which had loaded four mules when the King 
entered Peronne, became much lighter in the 
course of these negotiations. 

In the course of the third day, the Count of 
Campo-basso brought his Italian wit to assist the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


223 


counsels of Charles ; and well was it for Louis, 
that he had not arrived when the Duke was in 
his first fury. Immediately on his arrival, a regu- 
lar meeting of the Duke’s counsellors was convened, 
for considering the measures to be adopted in this 
singular crisis. 

On this occasion, Campo-hasso gave his opinion, 
couched in the apologue of the Traveller, the Adder, 
and the Fox ; and reminded the Duke of the advice 
which Reynard gave to the man, that he should 
crush his mortal enemy, now that chance had 
placed his fate at his disposal. Des Comines, who 
saw the Duke’s eyes sparkle at a proposal which 
his own violence of temper had already repeatedly 
suggested, hastened to state the possibility, that 
Louis might not be, in fact, so directly accessary to 
the sanguinary action which had been committed at 
Schonwaldt ; that he might be able to clear himself 
of the imputation laid to his charge, and perhaps to 
make other atonement for the distractions which 
his intrigues had occasioned in the Duke’s domi- 
nions, and those of his allies ; and that an act of 
violence perpetrated on the King, was sure to bring 
both on France and Burgundy a train of the most 
unhappy consequences, among which not the least 
to be feared was, that the English might avail them- 
selves of the commotions and civil discord which 
must needs ensue, to repossess themselves of Nor- 
mandy and Guyenne, and renew those dreadful 
wars, which had only, and with difficulty, been 
terminated by the union of both France and Bur- 
gundy against the common enemy. Finally, he 
confessed, that he did not mean to urge the abso- 
lute and free dismissal of Louis ; but only, that 
the Duke should avail himself no farther of his 


224 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


present condition, than merely to establish a fair 
and equitable treaty between the countries, with 
such security on the King’s part, as should make 
it difficult for him to break his faith, or disturb 
the internal peace of Burgundy in future. D’Hym- 
bercourt, Crkvecceur, and others, signified their 
reprobation of the violent measures proposed by 
Campo-basso, and their opinion, that in the way 
of treaty more permanent advantages could be 
obtained, and in a manner more honourable for 
Burgundy, than by an action which would stain 
her with a breach of faith and hospitality. 

The Duke listened to these arguments with his 
looks fixed on the ground, and his brows so knitted 
together as to bring his bushy eyebrows into one 
mass. But when Crkvecoeur proceeded to say, 
that he did not believe Louis either knew of, or 
was accessary to, the atrocious act of violence 
committed at Schonwaldt, Charles raised his head, 
and darting a fierce look at his counsellor, ex- 
claimed, “ Have you too, Crkvecoeur, heard the gold 
of France clink? — Methinks it rings in my coun- 
cils as merrily as ever the bells of Saint Dennis — 
Dare any one say that Louis is not the fomenter of 
these feuds in Flanders ? ” 

“ My gracious lord,” said Crkvecoeur, “ my hand 
has ever been more conversant with steel than 
with gold ; and so far am I from holding that 
Louis is free from the charge of having caused the 
disturbances in Flanders, that it is not long since, 
in the face of his whole Court, I charged him with 
that breach of faith, and offered him defiance in 
your name. But although his intrigues have been 
doubtless the original cause of these commotions, 
I am so far from believing that he authorized the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


225 


death of the Archbishop, that I believe one of his 
emissaries publicly protested against it ; and I could 
produce the man, were it your Grace’s pleasure to 
see him.” 

“It is our pleasure,” said the Duke. “ Saint 
George ! can you doubt that we desire to act justly ? 
Even in the highest flight of our passion, we 
are known for an upright and a just judge. We 
will see France ourself — we will ourself charge 
him with our wrongs, and ourself state to him the 
reparation which we expect and demand. If he 
shall be found guiltless of this murder, the atone- 
ment for other crimes may be more easy — If he 
hath been guilty, who shall say that a life of peni- 
tence in some retired monastery were not a most 
deserved and a most merciful doom ? — Who,” he 
added, kindling as he spoke, “ who shall dare to 
blame a revenge yet more direct and more speedy ? 
Let your witness attend — We will to the Castle 
at the hour before noon. Some articles we will 
minute down with which he shall comply, or woe 
on his head ! others shall depend upon the proof. 
Break up the council, and dismiss yourselves. I 
will but change my dress, as this is scarce a fit- 
ting trim in which to wait on my most gracious 
Sovereign 

With a deep and bitter emphasis on the last 
expression, the Duke arose, and strode out of the 
room. 

“Louis’s safety, and, what is worse, the honour 
of Burgundy, depend on a cast of the dice,” said 
D’Hymbercourt to Crkvecoeur and to Des Comines 
— “ Haste thee to the Castle, Des Comines — thou 
hast a better filed tongue than either Crbvecoeur or 
I. Explain to Louis what storm is approaching — 


226 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


he will best know how to pilot himself. I trust 
this life-guardsman will say nothing which can ag- 
gravate ; for who knows what may have been the 
secret commission with which he was charged ? ” 

“ The young man,” said Crkvecoeur, “ seems bold, 
yet prudent and wary far beyond his years. In 
all which he said to me he was tender of the King’s 
character, as of that of the Prince whom he serves. 
I trust he will be equally so in the Duke’s presence. 
I must go seek him, and also the young Countess 
of Croye.” 

“ The Countess ! — you told us you had left her 
at Saint Bridget’s Nunnery ?” 

“ Ay, but I was obliged,” said the Count, “ to 
send for her express, by the Duke’s orders ; and 
she has been brought hither on a litter, as being 
unable to travel otherwise. She was in a state of 
the deepest distress, both on account of the uncer- 
tainty of the fate of her kinswoman, the Lady 
Hameline, and' the gloom which overhangs her own ; 
guilty as she has been of a feudal delinquency, in 
withdrawing herself from the protection of her 
liege lord, Duke Charles, who is not the person in 
the world most likely to view with indifference 
what trenches on his seigniorial rights.” 

The information that the young Countess was in 
the hands of Charles, added fresh and more pointed 
thorns to Louis’s reflections. He was conscious 
that, by explaining the intrigues by which he had 
induced the Lady Hameline and her to resort to 
Peronne, she might supply that evidence which he 
had removed by the execution of Zamet Maugrabin ; 
and he knew well how much such proof of his 
having interfered with the rights of the Duke of 
Burgundy, would furnish both motive and pretext 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


227 


i or Charles’s availing himself to the uttermost of 
his present predicament. 

Louis discoursed on these matters with great 
anxiety to the Sieur Des Comines, whose acute and 
political talents better suited the King’s temper 
than the blunt martial character of Crkvecoeur, or 
the feudal haughtiness of D’Hymbercourt. 

“These iron-handed soldiers, my good friend 
Comines,” he said to his future historian, “ should 
never enter a King’s cabinet, but be left with the 
halberds and partisans in the antechamber. Their 
hands are indeed made for our use, but the mon- 
arch who puts their heads to any better occupa- 
tion than that of anvils for his enemies’ swords 
and maces, ranks with the fool who presented his 
mistress with a dog-leash for a carcanet. It is 
with such as thou, Philip, whose eyes are gifted 
with the quick and keen sense that sees beyond 
the exterior surface of affairs, that Princes should 
share their council-table, their cabinet — what do J 
say ? — the most secret recesses of their soul.” 

Des Comines, himself so keen a spirit, was natur- 
ally gratified with the approbation of the most 
sagacious Prince in Europe ; and he could not 
so far disguise his internal satisfaction, but that 
Louis was aware he had made some impression on 
him. 

“ I would,” continued he, “ that I had such a 
servant, or rather that I were worthy to have such 
a one ! I had not then been in this unfortunate 
situation ; which, nevertheless, I should hardly re- 
gret, could I but discover any means of securing the 
services of so experienced a statist.” 

Des Comines said, that all his faculties, such as 
they were, were at the service of his Most Christian 


228 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


Majesty, saving always his allegiance to his right- 
ful lord, Duke Charles of Burgundy. 

“ And am I one who would seduce you from that 
allegiance ? ” said Louis, pathetically. “ Alas ! am 
I not now endangered by having reposed too much 
confidence in my vassal ? and can the cause of feu- 
dal good faith be more sacred with any than with 
me, whose safety depends on an appeal to it ? — No, 
Philip Des Comines — continue to serve Charles of 
Burgundy ; and you will best serve him, by bring- 
ing round a fair accommodation with Louis of 
France. In doing thus, you will serve us both, and 
one, at least, will be grateful. I am told your ap- 
pointments in this Court hardly match those of the 
Grand Falconer; and thus the services of the wisest 
counsellor in Europe are put on a level, or rather 
ranked below, those of a fellow who feeds and phy- 
sics kites ! France has wide lands — her King has 
much gold. Allow me, my friend, to rectify this 
scandalous inequality. The means are not distant 
— Permit me to use them.” 

The King produced a weighty hag of money ; hut 
Des Comines, more delicate in his sentiments than 
most courtiers of that time, declined the proffer, de- 
claring himself perfectly satisfied with the liberality 
of his native Prince, and assuring Louis that his 
desire to serve him could not he increased by the 
acceptance of any such gratuity as he had proposed. 

“ Singular man ! ” exclaimed the King ; “ let me 
embrace the only courtier of his time, at once 
capable and incorruptible. Wisdom is to be desired 
more than fine gold ; and believe me, I trust in thy 
kindness, Philip, at this pinch, more than I do in 
the purchased assistance of many who have received 
my gifts. I know you will not counsel your master 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


229 


to abuse such an opportunity, as fortune, and, to 
speak plain, Des Comines, as my own folly, has 
afforded him.” 

“To abuse it, by no means,” answered the his- 
torian ; “ but most certainly to use it.” 

“ How, and in what degree ? ” said Louis. “ I 
am not ass enough to expect that I shall escape 
without some ransom — but let it be a reasonable 
one — reason I am ever willing to listen to — - at Paris 
or at Plessis, equally as at Peronne.” 

“ Ah, but if it like your Majesty,” replied Des 
Comines, “ Reason at Paris or Plessis^ was used to 
speak in so low and soft a tone of voice, that she 
could not always gain an audience of your Majesty 
— at Peronne, she borrows the speaking-trumpet 
of Necessity, and her voice becomes lordly and 
imperative.” 

“You are figurative,” said Louis, unable to ' 
restrain an emotion of peevishness ; \I am a dull, 
blunt man, Sir of Comines. I pray you leave your 
tropes, and come to plain ground. What does your 
Duke expect of me ? ” 

“ I am the bearer of no propositions, my lord,” 
said Des Comines ; “ the Duke will soon explain 
his own pleasure ; but some things occur to me as 
proposals, for which your Majesty ought to hold 
yourself prepared. As, for example, the final ces- 
sion of these towns here upon the Somme.” 

“ I expected so much,” said Louis. 

“ That you should disown the Liegeois, and 
William de la Marck.” 

“ As willingly as I disclaim Hell and Satan,” said 
Louis. 

“ Ample security will be required, by hostages, 
or occupation of fortresses, or otherwise, that France 


230 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


shall in future abstain from stirring up rebellion 
among the Flemings.” 

“ It is something new,” answered the King, “ that 
a vassal should demand pledges from his Sovereign : 
but let that pass too.” 

“A suitable and independent appanage for your 
illustrious brother, the ally and friend of my mas- 
ter — Normandy or Champagne. The Duke loves 
your father’s house, my Liege.” 

“ So well,” answered Louis, “ that, mort Dieu ! 
he’s about to make them all kings. — Is your bud- 
get of hints yet emptied ? ” 

“Not entirely,” answered the counsellor: “it 
will certainly be required that your Majesty shall 
forbear molesting, as you have done of late, the 
Duke de Bretagne, and that you will no longer 
contest the right, which he and other grand feuda- 
tories have, to strike money, to term themselves 
dukes and princes by the grace of God ” 

“ In a word, to make so many kings of my vas- 
sals. Sir Philip, would you make a fratricide of 
me ? — You remember well my brother Charles — 
he was no sooner Duke of Guyenne than he died. 
— And what will be left to the descendant and rep- 
resentative of Charlemagne, after giving away 
these rich provinces, save to be smeared with oil 
at Rheims, and to eat his dinner under a high 
canopy ? ” 

“We will diminish your Majesty’s concern on 
that score, by giving you a companion in that soli- 
tary exaltation,” said Philip des Comines. — “The 
Duke of Burgundy, though he claims not at pre- 
sent the title of an independent king, desires never- 
theless to be freed in future from the abject marks 
of subjection required of him to the crown of 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


231 


France ; — it is his purpose to close his ducal 
coronet with an iihperial arch, and surmount it 
with a globe, in emblem that his dominions are 
independent.” 

“ And how dares the Duke of Burgundy, the 
sworn vassal of France,” exclaimed Louis, starting 
up, and showing an unwonted degree of emotion — 

“ how dares he propose such terms to his Sovereign, 
as, by every law of Europe, should infer a forfei- 
ture of his fief ? ” 

“ The doom of forfeiture it would in this case be 
difficult to enforce,” answered Des Comines, calmly. 
— “Your Majesty is aware, that the strict inter- 
pretation of the feudal law is becoming obsolete 
even in the Empire, and that superior and vassal 
endeavour to mend their situation in regard to each 
other, as they have power and opportunity. — Your 
Majesty’s interferences with the Duke’s ■ vassals in 
Flanders will prove an exculpation of my master’s 
conduct, supposing him to insist that, by enlarging * 
his independence, France should in future be de- 
barred from any pretext of doing so.” 

“ Comines, Comines ! ” said Louis, arising again, 
and pacing the room in a pensive manner, “ this is 
a dreadful lesson on the text Vce metis ! — You can- 
not mean that the Duke will insist on all these hard 
conditions ? ” 

“ At least I would have your Majesty be in a 
condition to discuss them all.” 

“ Yet moderation, Des Comines, moderation in 
success, is — no one knows better than you — neces- 
sary to its ultimate advantage.” 

“ So please your Majesty, the merit of modera- 
tion is, I have observed, most apt to be extolled by 
the losing party. The winner holds in more esteem 


232 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


the prudence which calls on him not to leave an 
opportunity unimproved.” 

‘•'Well, we will consider” — replied the King; 
“ but at least thou hast reached the extremity of 
your Duke’s unreasonable exaction ? there can re- 
main nothing — or if there does, for so thy brow 
intimates — what is it — what indeed can it be — 
unless it be my crown ? which these previous de- 
mands, if granted, will deprive of all its lustre ! ” 

“ My lord,” said Des Comines, “ what remains to 
be mentioned, is a thing partly — indeed in a great 
measure — within the Duke’s own power, though he 
means to invite your Majesty’s accession to it, for 
in truth it touches you nearly.” 

“ Pasques-dieu ! ” exclaimed the King impatiently, 
“ what is it ? — Speak out, Sir Philip — am I to 
send him my daughter for a concubine, or what 
other dishonour is he to put on me ? ” 

“ No dishonour, my liege ; but your Majesty’s 

• cousin, the illustrious Duke of Orleans ” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed the King ; but Des Comines 
proceeded without heeding the interruption. 

“ — Having conferred his affections on the young 
Countess Isabelle de Croye, the Duke expects your 
Majesty will, on your part, as he on his, yield your 
assent to the marriage, and unite with him in en- 
dowing the right noble couple with such an appan- 
age, as, joined to the Countess’s estates, may form 
a fit establishment for a child of France.” 

“ Never, never ! ” said the King, bursting out into 
that emotion which he had of late suppressed with 
much difficulty, and striding about in a disordered 
haste, which formed the strongest contrast to the 
self-command which he usually exhibited, — “ Never, 
never ! — let them bring scissors, and shear my hair 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


233 


like that of the parish-fool, whom I have so richly 
resembled ! let them bid the monastery or the grave 
yawn for me — let them bring redhot basins to 
sear my eyes — - axe or aconite — whatever they 
will — but Orleans shall not break his plighted 
faith to my daughter, or marry another while she 
lives ! ” 

“ Your Majesty,” said Des Comines, “ ere you 
set your mind so keenly against what is proposed, 
will consider your own want of power to prevent 
it. Every wise man, when he sees a rock giving 
way, withdraws from the bootless attempt of pre- 
venting the fall.” 

“ But a brave man,” said Louis, “ will at least 
find his grave beneath it. Des Comines, consider 
the great lo§s — the utter destruction, such a mar- 
riage will bring upon my kingdom. Recollect, I 
have but one feeble boy, and this Orleans is the 
next heir — consider that the church hath consented 
to his union with Joan, which unites so happily the 
interests of both branches of my family, — think on 
all this, and think too that this union has been the 
favourite scheme of my whole life — that I have 
schemed for it, fought for it, watched for it, prayed 
for it, — and sinned for it. Philip des Comines, 
I will not forego it ! Think, man, think ! — pity me 
in this extremity — thy quick brain can speedily 
find some substitute for this sacrifice — some ram 
to be offered up instead of that project which is dear 
to me as the Patriarch’s only son was to him. 
Philip, pity me ! — you, at least, should know, that 
to men of judgment and foresight, the destruction of 
the scheme on which they have long dwelt, and for 
which they have long toiled, is more inexpressibly 
bitter than the transient grief of ordinary men 


234 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

whose pursuits are but the gratification of some 
temporary passion — you, who know how to sym- 
pathize with the deeper, the more genuine distress 
of baffled prudence and disappointed sagacity, — 
will you not feel for me ? ” 

“ My Lord and King ! ” replied Des Comines, 
“ I do sympathize with your distress, in so far as 
duty to my master ” 

“ Do not mention him ! ” said Louis, acting, or 
at least appearing to act, under an irresistible and 
headlong impulse, which withdrew the usual guard 
which he maintained over his language — “ Charles 
of Burgundy is unworthy of your attachment. 
He who can insult and strike his counsellors — 
he who can distinguish the wisest and most faith- 
ful among them, by the opprobrious name of 
Booted-Head ! ” 

The wisdom of Philip des Comines did not pre- 
vent his having a high sense of personal conse- 
quence ; and he was so much struck with the words 
which the King uttered, as it were, in the career of 
a passion which overleaped ceremony, that he could 
only reply by repetition of the words “ Booted-Head ! 
It is impossible that my master the Duke could 
have so termed the servant who has been at his side 
since he could mount a palfrey — and that too be- 
fore a foreign monarch ? — it is impossible ! ” 

Louis instantly saw the impression he had made, 
and avoiding alike a tone of condolence, which might 
have seemed insulting, and one of sympathy, which 
might have savoured of affectation, he said, with 
simplicity, and at the same time with dignity, “My 
misfortunes make me forget my courtesy, else I had 
not spoken to you of what it must be unpleasant 
for you to hear. But you have in reply taxed me 


QUENTIN DUliWAllD. 


235 


with having uttered impossibilities — this touches 
my honour ; yet I must submit to the charge, if I 
tell you not the circumstances which the Duke, 
laughing until his eyes ran over, assigned for the 
origin of that opprobrious name, which I will not 
offend your ears by repeating. Thus, then, it 
chanced. You, Sir Philip Des Comines, were at 
a hunting-match with the Duke of Burgundy, your 
master ; and when he alighted after the chase, he 
required your services in drawing off his boots. 
Beading in your looks, perhaps, some natural re- 
sentment of this disparaging treatment, he ordered 
you to sit down in turn, and rendered you the same 
office he had just received from you. But offended 
at your understanding him literally, he no sooner 
plucked one of your boots off, than he brutally beat 
it about your head till the blood flowed, exclaiming 
against the insolence of a subject, who had the pre- 
sumption to accept of such a service at the hand of 
his Sovereign ; and hence he, or his privileged fool 
Le Glorieux, is in the current habit of distinguish- 
ing you by the absurd and ridiculous name of Tete- 
lotte, which makes one of the Duke’s most ordinary 
subjects of pleasantry.” 1 

While Louis thus spoke, he had the double plea- * 
sure of galling to the quick the person whom he ad- 
dressed — an exercise which it was in his nature to 
enjoy, even where he had not, as in the present case. 

1 The story is told more bluntly, and less probably, in the 
French memoirs of the period, which affirm that Comines, out 
of a presumption inconsistent with his excellent good sense, had 
asked of Charles of Burgundy to draw off his boots, without 
having been treated with any previous familiarity to lead to 
such a freedom. I have endeavoured to give the anecdote a 
turn more consistent with the sense and prudence of the great 
author concerned. 


236 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


the apology, that he did so in pure retaliation, — and 
that of observing that he had at length been able to 
find a point in Des Comines’ character which might 
lead him gradually from the interests of Burgundy 
to those of France. But although the deep resent- 
ment which the offended courtier entertained against 
his master induced him at a future period to ex- 
change the service of Charles for that of Louis, yet, 
at the present moment, he was contented to throw 
out only some general hints of his friendly inclina- 
tion towards France, which he well knew the King 
would understand how to interpret. And indeed it 
would be unjust to stigmatize the memory of the 
excellent historian with the desertion of his master 
on this occasion, although he was certainly now 
possessed with sentiments much more favourable to 
Louis than when he entered the apartment. 

He constrained himself to laugh at the anecdote 
which Louis had detailed, and then added, “ I did 
not think so trifling a frolic would have dwelt on 
the mind of the Duke so long as to make it worth 
telling again. Some such passage there was of 
drawing off boots and the like, as your Majesty 
knows that the Duke is fond of rude play ; but it 
has been much exaggerated in his recollection. Let 
it pass on.” 

“ Ay, let it pass on,” said the King ; “ it is indeed 
shame it should have detained us a minute. — And 
now, Sir Philip, I hope you are French so far as to 
afford me your best counsel in these difficult affairs. 
You have, I am well aware, the clew to the labyrinth, 
if you would but impart it.” 

“ Your Majesty may command my best advice and 
service,” replied Des Comines, “under reservation 
always of my duty to my own master.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


237 


This was nearly what the courtier had before 
stated ; hut he now repeated it in a tone so differ- 
ent, that whereas Louis understood from the former 
declaration, that the reserved duty to Burgundy was 
the prime thing to be considered, so he now saw 
clearly that the emphasis was reversed, and that 
more weight was now given by the speaker to his 
promise of counsel, than to a restriction which 
seemed interposed for the sake of form and con- 
sistency. The King resumed his own seat, and 
compelled Des Comines to sit by him, listening at 
the same time to that statesman, as if the words of 
an oracle sounded in his ears. Des Comines spoke 
in that low and impressive tone, which implies at 
once great sincerity and some caution, and at the 
same time so slowly, as if he was desirous that the 
King should weigh and consider each individual 
word as having its own peculiar and determined 
meaning. “ The things,” he said, “ which I have 
suggested for your Majesty’s consideration, harsh 
as they sound in your ear, are but substitutes for 
still more violent proposals brought forward in the 
Duke’s councils, by such as are more hostile to your 
Majesty. And I need scarce remind your Majesty, 
that the more direct and more violent suggestions 
find readiest acceptance with our master, who loves 
brief and dangerous measures better than those that 
are safe, but at the same time circuitous.” 

“ I remember ” - — said the King, “ I have seen 
him swim a river at the risk of drowning, though 
there was a bridge to be found for riding two hun- 
dred yards round.” 

“ True, Sire ; and he that weighs not his life 
against the gratification of a moment of impetuous 
passion, will, on the same impulse, prefer the .grati- 


238 QUENTIN DUlUVAltl). 

fication of liis will to the increase of his substantial 
power.” 

“ Most true,” replied the King ; “ a fool will ever 
grasp rather at the appearance than the reality of 
authority. All this I know to be true of Charles 
of Burgundy. But, my dear friend Des Comines, 
what do you infer from these premises ? ” 

“ Simply this, my lord,” answered the Burgundian, 
“ that as your Majesty has seen a skilful angler con- 
trol a large and heavy fish, and finally draw him to 
land by a single hair, which fish had broke through 
a tackle tenfold stronger, had the fisher presumed to 
strain the line on him, instead of giving him head 
enough for all his wild flourishes ; even so your 
Majesty, by gratifying the Duke in these particulars 
on which he has pitched his ideas of honour, and 
the gratification of his revenge, may evade many of 
the other unpalatable propositions at which I have 
hinted ; and which — including, I must state openly 
to your Majesty, some of those through which France 
would be most especially weakened — will slide out 
of his remembrance and attention, and, being referred 
to subsequent conferences and future discussion, may 
be altogether eluded.” 

“ I understand you, my good Sir Philip ; but to 
the matter,” said the King. “ To which of those 
happy propositions is your Duke so much wedded, 
that contradiction will make him unreasonable and 
untractable ? ” 

“To any or to all of them, if it please your 
Majesty, on which you may happen to contradict 
him. This is precisely what your Majesty must 
avoid ; and to take up my former parable, you must 
needs remain on the watch, ready to give the Duke 
line enough whenever he shoots away under the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


239 


impulse of his rage. His fury, already considerably 
abated, will waste itself if he be unopposed, and you 
will presently find him become more friendly and 
more tractable.” 

‘‘Still,” said the King, musing, “there must be 
some particular demands which lie deeper at my 
cousin’s heart than the other proposals. Were I 
but aware of these, Sir Philip ” 

“Your Majesty may make the lightest of his 
demands the most important, simply by opposing 
it,” said Des Comines ; “ nevertheless, my lord, thus 
far I can say, that every shadow of treaty will be 
broken off, if your Majesty renounce not William 
de la Marck and the Liegeois.” 

“ I have already said that I will disown them,’ 
said the King, “and well they deserve it at my 
hand ; the villains have commenced their uproar at 
a moment that might have cost me my life.” 

“ He that fires a train ,of powder,” replied the 
historian, “must expect a speedy explosion of the 
mine. — But more than mere disavowal of their 
cause will be expected of your Majesty by Duke 
Charles ; for know, that he will demand your Ma- 
jesty’s assistance to put the insurrection down, and 
your royal presence to witness the punishment 
which he destines for the rebels.” 

“ That may scarce consist with our honour, Des 
Comines,” said the King. 

“ To refuse it will scarcely consist with your 
Majesty’s safety,” replied Des Comines. “ Charles 
is determined to show the people of Flanders, that 
no hope, nay no promise, of assistance from France,, 
will save them in their mutinies from the wrath and 
vengeance of Burgundy.” 

“ But, Sir Philip, I will speak* plainly,” answered 


240 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

the King — “ Could we but procrastinate the matter, 
might not these rogues of Liege make their own 
part good against Duke Charles ? The knaves 
are numerous and steady — Can they not hold out 
their town against him ? ” 

“ With the help of the thousand archers of France 
whom your Majesty promised them, they might 

have done something ; but ” 

“ Whom I promised them ! ” said the King — 
“ Alas ! good Sir Philip ! you much wrong me in 
saying so.” 

“ — But without whom,” continued Des Comines, 
not heeding the interruption, — “ as your Majesty 
will not now likely find it convenient to supply 
them, — what chance will the burghers have of 
making good their town, in whose walls the large 
breaches made by Charles after the battle of St. 
Tron are still unrepaired ; so that the lances of 
Hainault, Brabant, and Burgundy, may advance to 
the attack twenty men in front ? ” 

“ The improvident idiots ! ” said the King — “ If 
they have thus neglected their own safety, they 
deserve not my protection. — Pass on — I will make 
no quarrel for their sake.” 

“ The next point, I fear, will sit closer to your 
Majesty’s heart,” said Des Comines. 

“Ah!” replied the King, “you mean that in- 
fernal marriage ! I will not consent to the breach 
of the contract betwixt my daughter Joan and my 
cousin of Orleans — it would be wresting the sceptre 
of France from me and my posterity ; for that feeble 
boy the Dauphin is a blighted blossom, which will 
wither without fruit. This match between Joan 
and Orleans has been my thought by day, my dream 
by night — I tell thee, Sir Philip, I cannot give it 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


241 


up ! — Besides, it is inhuman to require me, with 
my own hand, to destroy at once my own scheme 
of policy, and the happiness of a pair brought up for 
each other.” 

“ Are they then so much attached ? ” said Des 
Comines. 

“ One of them at least is,” said the King, “ and 
the one for whom I am bound to be most anxious. 
But you smile, Sir Philip, — you are no believer in 
the force of love.” 

“ Nay,” said Des Comines, “ if it please you, 
Sire, I am so little an infidel in that particular, that 
I was about to ask whether it would reconcile you 
in any degree to your acquiescing in the proposed 
marriage betwixt the Duke of Orleans and Isabelle 
de Croye, were I to satisfy you that the Countess’s 
inclinations are so much fixed on another, that it is 
likely it will never be a match ? ” 

King Louis sighed. — “ Alas ! ” he said, “ my 
good and dear friend, from what sepulchre have you 
drawn such dead man’s comfort ? Her inclination, 
indeed ! — Why, to speak truth, supposing that 
Orleans detested my daughter Joan, yet, but for 
this ill-ravelled web of mischance, he must needs 
have married her ; so you may conjecture how little 
chance there is of this damsel being able to refuse 
him under a similar compulsion, and he a Child of 
France besides. — Ah, no, Philip ! — little fear of her 
standing obstinate against the suit of such a lover. 
— Varium et mutabile , Philip.” 

“ Your Majesty may, in the present instance, 
undervalue the obstinate courage of this young 
lady. She comes of a race determinately wilful; 
and I have picked out of Crkvecceur that she has 
formed a romantic attachment to a young squire, 


242 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

who, to say truth, rendered her many services on 
the road.” 

“ Ha ! ” said the King, — “ an archer of my 
Guards, by name Quentin Durward ? ” 

“ The same, as I think,” said Des Comines ; “ he 
was made prisoner along with the Countess, travel- 
ling almost alone together.” 

“ Now, our Lord and our Lady, and Monseig- 
neur Saint Martin and Monseigneur Saint Julian, 
be praised every one of them ! ” said the King, 
“ and all laud and honour to the learned Galeotti, 
who read in the stars that this youth’s destiny was 
connected with mine ! If the maiden be so attached 
to him as to make her refractory to the will of Bur- 
gundy, this Quentin hath indeed been rarely useful 
to me.” 

“ I believe, my lord,” answered the Burgundian, 
“ according to Crkvecoeur’s report, that there is 
some chance of her being sufficiently obstinate ; 
besides, doubtless, the noble Duke himself, not- 
withstanding. what your Majesty was pleased to 
hint in way of supposition, will not willingly re- 
nounce his fair cousin, to whom he has been long 
engaged.” 

“ Umph ! ” answered the King — “ But you have 
never seen my daughter Joan. — A howlet, man ! 
- — an absolute owl, whom I am ashamed of ! But 
let him be only a wise man, and marry her, I will 
give him leave to be mad par amours for the fairest 
lady in France. — And now, Philip, have you given 
me the full map of your master’s mind ? ” 

“ I have possessed you, Sire, of those particulars 
on which he is at present most disposed to insist. 
But your Majesty well knows that the Duke’s dis- 
position is like a sweeping torrent, which only 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


243 


passes smoothly forward when its waves encounter 
no opposition ; and what may be presented to chafe 
him into fury, it is impossible even to guess. Were 
more distinct evidence of your Majesty’s practices 
(pardon the phrase, where there is so little time for 
selection) with the Liegeois and William de la 
Marck to occur unexpectedly, the issue might be 
terrible. — There are strange news from that country 

— they say. La Marck hath married Hameline the 
elder Countess of Croye.” 

“ That old fool was so mad on marriage, that she 
would have accepted the hand of Satan,” said the 
King ; “ but that La Marck, beast as he is, should 
have married her, rather more surprises me.” 

“ There is a report also,” continued Des Com- 
ines, “ that an envoy, or herald, on La Marck’s 
part, is approaching Peronne ; — this is like to drive 
the Duke frantic with rage — I trust that he has no 
letters, or the like, to show on your Majesty’s 
part ? ” 

“ Letters to a Wild Boar ! ” answered the King, 

— “No, no, Sir Philip, I was no such fool as to 
cast pearls before swine — What little intercourse 
I had with the brute animal was by message, in 
which I always employed such low-bred slaves and 
vagabonds, that their evidence would not be re- 
ceived in a trial for robbing a hen-roost.” 

“ I can then only further recommend,” said Des 
Comines, taking his leave, “ that your Majesty should 
remain on your guard, be guided by events, and, 
above all, avoid using any language or argument 
with the Duke which may better become your dig- 
nity than your present condition.” 

“If my dignity,” said the King, “grow trouble- 
some to me, — which it seldom doth while there 


244 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


are deeper interests to think of, — I have a special 
remedy for that swelling of the heart — It is but 
looking into a certain ruinous closet, Sir Philip, and 
thinking of the death of Charles the Simple ; and it 
cures me as effectually as the cold bath would cool 
a fever. — And now, my friend and monitor, must 
thou be gone ? Well, Sir Philip, the time must 
come when thou wilt tire reading lessons of state 
policy to the Bull of Burgundy, who is incapable 
of comprehending your most simple argument — If 
Louis of Valois then lives, thou hast a friend in 
the Court of France. I tell thee, my Philip, it 
would be a blessing to my kingdom should 1 I ever 
acquire thee ; who, with a profound view of subjects 
of state, hast also a conscience, capable of feeling 
and discerning between right and wrong. So help 
me, our Lord and Lady, and Monseigneur Saint 
Martin, Oliver and Balue have hearts as hardened 
as the nether millstone ; and my life is embittered 
by remorse and penances for the crimes they make 
me commit. Thou, Sir Philip, possessed of the 
wisdom of present and past times, canst teach how 
to become great without ceasing to be virtuous.” 

“ A hard task, and which few have attained,” 
said the historian ; “ but which is yet within the 
reach of princes, who will strive for it. Meantime, 
Sire, be prepared, for the Duke will presently con- 
fer with you.” 

Louis looked long after Philip when he left the 
apartment, and at length burst into a bitter laugh. 
“ He spoke of fishing — I have sent him home, a 
trout properly tickled ! — And he thinks himself 
virtuous because he took no bribe, but contented 
himself with flattery and promises, and the pleasure 
of avenging an affront to his vanity ! — Why, he is 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


245 


but so much the poorer for the refusal of the money 
— not a jot the more honest. He must be mine, 
though, for he hath the shrewdest head among 
them. — Well, now for nobler game ! I am to face 
this leviathan Charles, who will presently swim 
hitherward, cleaving the deep before him. I must, 
like a trembling sailor, throw a tub overboard to 
amuse him. But I may one day find the chance — 
of driving a harpoon into his entrails ! ” 1 

1 Note VIII 


CHAPTER XIY. 


THE INTERVIEW. 

Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. — Gentle maiden, 

Keep you vour promise plight — leave age its subtleties, 
And grev-hair’d policy its maze of falsehood ; 

But be you candid as the morning sky, 

Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to stain it. 

The Trial. 


On the perilous and important morning which 
preceded the meeting of the two Princes in the 
Castle of Peronne, Oliver le Dain did his master 
the service of an active and skilful agent, making 
interest for Louis in every quarter, both with pre- 
sents and promises ; so that when the Duke’s anger 
should blaze forth, all around should be interested 
to smother, and not to increase, the conflagration. 
He glided, like night, from tent to tent, from house 
to house, making himself friends, but not, in the 
Apostle’s sense, with the Mammon of unrighteous- 
ness. As was said of another active political agent, 
“ His finger was in every man’s palm, his mouth 
was in every man’s ear;” and for various reasons, 
some of which we have formerly hinted at, he se- 
cured the favour of many Burgundian nobles, who 
either had something to hope or fear from France, 
or who thought that, were the power of Louis too 
much reduced, their own Duke would be likely to 
pursue the road to despotic authority, to which his 


QUENTIN DURWAIID. 


247 


heart naturally inclined him, with a daring and 
unopposed pace. 

Where Oliver suspected his own presence or 
arguments migdit be less acceptable, he employed 
that of other servants of the King ; and it was in 
this manner that he obtained, by the favour of the 
Count de Crevecceur, an interview betwixt Lord 
Crawford, accompanied by Le BalafrA and Quentin 
Durward, who, since he had arrived at Peronne, 
had been detained in a sort of honourable confine- 
ment. Private affairs were assigned as the cause 
of requesting this meeting ; but it is probable that 
Crbvecoeur, who was afraid that his master might 
be stirred up in passion to do something, dishonour- 
ably violent towards Louis, was not sorry to afford 
an opportunity to Crawford to give some hints to 
the young archer, which might prove useful to his 
master. 

The meeting between the countrymen was cor- 
dial, and even affecting. 

“ Thou art a singular youth,” said Crawford, 
stroking the head of young Durward, as a grand- 
sire might do that of his descendant ; “ Certes, you 
have had as meikle good fortune as if you had been 
born with a lucky hood on your head.” 

“All comes of his gaining an archer’s place at 
such early years,” said Le Balafrd ; “ I never was 
so much talked of, fair nephew, because 1 was five- 
and-twenty years old before I was hors de page.” 

“And an ill-looking mountainous monster of a 
page thou wert, Ludovic,” said the old commander, 
“ with a beard like a baker’s shool, and a back like 
old Wallace Wight.” 

“ I fear,” said Quentin, with downcast eyes, “ I 
shall enjoy that title to distinction but a short 


248 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

time — since it is my purpose to resign the service 
of the Archer-guard/’ 

Le Balafre was struck almost mute with astonish- 
ment, and Crawford’s ancient features gleamed with 
displeasure. The former at length mustered words 
enough to say, “ Resign ! — leave your place in the 
Scottish Archers ! — such a thing was never dreamt 
of. I would not give up my situation, to be made 
Constable of France.” 

“ Hush ! Ludovic,” said Crawford ; “ this youngster 
knows better how to shape his course with the 
wind than we of the old world do. His journey 
hath given him some pretty tales to tell about 
King Louis ; and he is turning Burgundian, that 
he may make his own little profit by telling them 
to Duke Charles.” 

“ If I thought so,” said Le Balafrfi, “ I would cut 
his throat with my own hand, were he fifty times 
my sister’s son ! ” 

“ But you would first enquire, whether I deserved 
to be so treated, fair kinsman ? ” answered Quentin ; 
— “and you, my lord, know that I am no tale- 
bearer; nor shall either question or torture draw 
out of me a word to King Louis’s prejudice, which 
may have come to my knowledge while I was in 
his service. — So far my oath of duty keeps me 
silent. But I will not remain in that service, in 
which, besides the perils of fair battle with mine 
enemies, I am to be exposed to the dangers of 
ambuscade on the part of my friends.” 

“ Nay, if he objects to lying in ambuscade,” 
said the slow-witted Le Balafrfi, looking sorrowfully 
at the Lord Crawford, “ I am afraid, my lord, that 
all is over with him ! I myself have had thirty 
bushments break upon me, and truly I think I have 


QUENTIN DU11WARD. 


249 


laid in ambuscade twice as often myself, it being 
a favourite practice in our King’s mode of making 
war.” 

“ It is so indeed, Ludovic,” answered Lord Craw- 
ford ; “ nevertheless, hold your peace, for I believe 
I understand this gear better than you do.” 

“I wish to our Lady you may, my lord,” an- 
swered Ludovic ; “ but it wounds me to the very 
midriff, to think my sister’s son should fear an 
ambushment.” 

“Young man,” said Crawford, “I partly guess 
your meaning. You have met foul play on the 
road where you travelled by the King’s command, 
and you think you have reason to charge him 
with being the author of it ? ” 

“I have been threatened with foul , play in the 
execution of the King’s commission,” answered 
Quentin ; “ but I have had the good fortune to 
elude it — whether his Majesty be innocent or 
guilty in the matter, I leave to God and his own 
conscience. He fed me when I was a-hungered — 
received me when I was a wandering stranger. I 
will never load him in his adversity with accusa- 
tions which may indeed be unjust, since I heard 
them only from the vilest mouths.” 

“ My dear boy — my own lad ! ” said Crawford, 
taking him in his arms — “ Ye think like a Scot, 
every joint of you! Like one that will forget a 
cause of quarrel with a friend whose back is already 
at the wall, and remember nothing of him but his 
kindness.” 

“Since my Lord Crawford has embraced my 
nephew,” said Ludovic Lesly, “ I will embrace him 
a l so — though I would have you to know, that to 
understand the service of an ambushment is as 


250 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


necessary to a soldier, as it is to a priest to be able 
to read his breviary.” 

“Be hushed, Ludovic,” said Crawford; “ye are 
an ass, my friend, and ken not the blessing Heaven 
has sent you in this braw callant. — And now tell 
me, Quentin, my man, hath the King any advice of 
this brave, Christian, and manly resolution of yours ? 
for, poor man, he had need, in his strait, to ken 
what he has to reckon upon. Had he but brought 
the whole brigade of Guards with him ! — But God’s 
will be done — Kens he of your purpose, think 
you ? ” 

“ I really can hardly tell,” answered Quentin ; 
“ but I assured his learned astrologer, Martius 
Gaieotti, of my resolution to be silent on all that 
could injure the King with the Duke of Burgundy. 
The particulars which I suspect, I will not (under 
your favour) communicate even to your lordship ; 
and to the philosopher I was, of course, far less 
willing to unfold myself.” 

“ Ha ! — ay ! ” — answered Lord Crawford — “ Oli- 
ver did indeed tell me that Gaieotti prophesied most 
stoutly concerning the line of conduct you were to 
hold; and I am truly glad to find he did so on 
better authority than the stars.” 

“ He prophesy ! ” said Le Balafrd, laughing ; “ the 
stars never told him that honest Ludovic Lesly 
used to help yonder wench of his to spend the fair 
ducats he flings into her lap.” 

“ Hush ! Ludovic,” said his captain, “ hush ! thou 
beast, man ! — If thou dost not respect my grey 
hairs, because I have been e’en too much of a rou - 
tier myself, respect the boy’s youth and innocence, 
and let us have no more of such unbecoming 
daffing.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


251 


“ Your honour may say your pleasure,” answered 
Ludovic Lesly ; “ but, by my faith, second-sighted 
Saunders Souplejaw, the town-souter of Glen- 
houlakin, was worth Gallotti, or Gallipotty, or 
whatever ye call him, twice told, for a prophet. He 
foretold that all my sister’s children would die some 
day ; and he foretold it in the very hour that the 
youngest was born, and that is this lad Quentin — 
who, no doubt, will one day die, to make up the 
prophecy — the more’s the pity — the whole curney 
of them is gone but himself. And Saunders fore- 
told to myself one day, that I should be made by 
marriage, which doubtless will also happen in due 
time, though it hath not yet come to pass — 
though how or when, I can hardly guess, as I care 
not myself for the wedded state, and Quentin is 
but a lad. Also, Saunders predicted ” 

“ Nay,” said Lord Crawford, “ unless the pre- 
diction be singularly to the purpose, I must cut 
you short, my good Ludovic ; for both you and I 
must now leave your nephew, with prayers to Our 
Lady to strengthen him in the good mind he is in ; 
for this is a case in which a light word might do 
more mischief than all the Parliament of Paris 
could mend. — My biessing with you, my lad; and 
be in no hurry to think of leaving our body ; for 
there will be good blows going presently in the 
eye of day, and no ambuscade.’ 

“And my blessing too, nephew/' said Ludovic 
Lesly ; “ for, since you have satisfied our most 
noble captain, I also am satisfied, as in duty bound.” 

“ Stay, my lord,” said Quentin, and led Lord 
Crawford a little apart from his uncle. “ I must 
not forget to mention, that there is a person besides 
in the world, who, having learned from me thesa 


25 2 


QUENTIN DTJRWARD. 


circumstances, which it is essential to King Louis’s 
safety should at present remain concealed, may not 
think that the same obligation of secrecy, which 
attaches to me as the King’s soldier, and as having 
been relieved by his bounty, is at all binding on 
her.” 

“ On her ! ” replied Crawford ; “ nay, if there be 
a woman in the secret, the Lord ha’ mercy, for we 
are all on the rocks again ! ” 

“l)o not suppose so, my lord,” replied Durward, 
“but use your interest with the Count of Creve- 
coeur to permit me an interview with the Countess 
Isabelle of Croye, who is the party possessed of my 
secret, and I doubt not that I can persuade her to 
be as silent as 1 shall unquestionably myself remain, 
concerning whatever may incense the Duke against 
King Louis.” 

The old soldier mused for a long time — looked 
up to the ceiling, then down again upon the floor 

— then shook his head, — and at length said, “ There 
is something in all this, which, by my honour, I do 
not understand. The Countess Isabelle of Croye ! 

— an interview with a lady of her birth, blood, and 
possessions ! — and thou, a raw Scottish lad, so cer- 
tain of carrying thy point with her ? Thou art 
either strangely confident, my young friend, or else 
you have used your time well upon the journey. 
But, by the Cross of Saint Andrew ! I will move 
Crfevecoeur in thy behalf ; and, as he truly fears 
that Duke Charles may be provoked against the 
King to the extremity of falling foul, I think it 
likely he may grant thy request, though, by my 
honour, it is a comical one ! ” 

So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the 
old Lord left the apartment, followed by Ludovic 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


253 


Lesly, who, forming his looks on those of his prin- 
cipal, endeavoured, though knowing nothing of the 
cause of his wonder, to look as mysterious and 
important as Crawford himself. 

In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without 
his attendant Le BalafrA The old man seemed in 
singular humour, laughing and chuckling to him- 
self in a manner which strangely distorted his stern 
and rigid features, and at the same time shaking 
his head, as at something which he could not help 
condemning, while he found it irresistibly ludicrous. 
“My certes, countryman,” said he, “but you are 
not blate — you will never lose fair lady for fairft 
heart! Cr&vecceur swallowed your proposal as he 
would have done a cup of vinegar, and swore to me 
roundly, by all the saints in Burgundy, that were 
less than the honour of princes and the peace of 
kingdoms at stake, you should never see even so 
much as the print of the Countess Isabelle’s foot 
on the clay. Were it not that he had a dame, and 
a fair one, I would have thought that he meant to 
break a lance for the prize himself. Perhaps he 
thinks of his nephew, the Count Stephen. A 
Countess ! — would no less serve you to be minting 
at ? — But come along — your interview with her 
must be brief — But I fancy you know how to make 
the most of little time — ho ! ho ! ho ! — By my faith, 
I can hardly chide thee for the presumption, I have 
such a good will to laugh at it ! ” 

With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and 
disconcerted by the blunt inferences of the old sol- 
dier, and vexed at beholding in what an absurd light 
his passion was viewed by every person of expe- 
rience, Durward followed Lord Crawford in silence 
to the Ursuline convent, in which the Countess was 


254 


QUENTIN DUli WARD. 

lodged, and in the parlour of which he found the 
Count de Cr&vecoeur. 

“ So, young gallant,” said the latter, sternly, “ you 
must see the fair companion of your romantic expe- 
dition once more, it seems ? ” 

“ Yes, my Lord Count,” answered Quentin, firmly ; 
*‘ and what is more, I must see her alone.” 

“ That shall never be,” said the Count de Crbve- 
cceur. — “ Lord Crawford, I make you judge. This 
young lady, the daughter of my old friend and com- 
panion in arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has 
confessed a sort of a — what was I going to say ? 
— - in short, she is a fool, and your man-at-arms 
here a presumptuous coxcomb — In a word, they 
shall not meet alone.” 

“ Then will I not speak a single word to the 
Countess in your presence,” said Quentin, much 
delighted. “ You have told me much that I did not 
dare, presumptuous as I may be, even to hope.” 

“ Ay, truly said, my friend,” said Crawford. 
“ You have been imprudent in your communica- 
tions ; and, since you refer to me, and there is a 
good stout grating across the parlour, I would ad- 
vise you to trust to it, and let them do the worst 
with their tongues. What, man ! the life of a 
King, and many thousands besides, is not to be 
weighed with the chance of two young things 
whilly-whawing in ilk other’s ears for a minute ? ” 

So saying, he dragged off Crbvecoeur, who fol- 
lowed very reluctantly, and cast many angry 
glances at the young Archer as he left the room. 

In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered 
on the other side of the grate, and no sooner saw 
Quentin alone in the parlour, than she stopped 
short, and cast her eyes on the ground for the space 








QUENTIN DURWARD. 


255 


of half a minute. " Yet why should I be ungrate- 
ful,” she said, “because others are unjustly sus- 
picious ? — My friend — my preserver, I may almost 
say, so much have I been beset by treachery — my 
only faithful and constant friend ! ” 

As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him 
through the grate, nay, suffered him to retain it, 
until he had covered it with kisses, not unmingled 
with tears. She only said, “Durward, were we 
ever to meet again, I would not permit this folly.” 

If it be considered that Quentin had guarded her 
through so many perils — that he had been, in truth, 
her only faithful and zealous protector, perhaps my 
fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses should 
be of the number, will pardon the derogation. 

But the Countess extricated her hand at length, 
and stepping a pace back from the grate, asked 
Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what boon 
he had to ask of her ? — “ For that you have a re- 
quest to make, I have learned from the old Scottish 
Lord, who came here but now with my cousin of 
Crkvecoeur. Let it be but reasonable,” she said, 
“ but such as poor Isabelle can grant with duty and 
honour uninfringed, and you cannot tax my slender 
powers too highly. But, O ! do not speak hastily, 
— do not say,” she added, looking around with tim- 
idity, “ aught that might, if overheard, do prejudice 
to us both ! ” 

“Fear not, noble lady,” said Quentin, sorrow- 
fully ; “ it is not here that I can forget the distance 
which fate has placed between us, or expose you to 
the censure of your proud kindred, as the object 
of the most devoted love to one, poorer and less 
powerful — not perhaps less noble than themselves. 
Let that pass like a dream of the night to all but 


256 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


one bosom, where, dream as it is, it will fill up the 
room of all existing realities.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” said Isabelle ; “ for your own 
sake, — for mine, — be silent on such a theme. Tell 
me rather what it is you have to ask of me.” 

“ Forgiveness to one,” replied Quentin, “ who, 
for his own selfish views, hath conducted himself 
as your enemy.” 

“ I trust I forgive all my enemies,” answered 
Isabelle; “but oh, Durward ! through what scenes 
have your courage and presence of mind protected 
me ! — Yonder bloody hall — the good Bishop — I 
knew not till yesterday half the horrors I had 
unconsciously witnessed ! ” 

“ Do not think on them,” said Quentin, who 
saw the transient colour which had come to her 
cheek during their conference, fast fading into the 
most deadly paleness — “ Do not look back, but look 
steadily forward, as they needs must who walk in 
a perilous road. Hearken to me. King Louis 
deserves nothing better at your hand, of all others, 
than to be proclaimed the wily and insidious poli- 
tician, which he really is. But to tax him as the. 
encourager of your flight — still more as the author 
of a plan to throw you into the hands of De la 
Marck — will at this moment produce perhaps the 
King’s death or dethronement ; and, at all events, 
the most bloody war between France and Burgundy 
which the two countries have ever been engaged 
in.” 

“ These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they 
can be prevented,” said the Countess Isabelle ; “ and 
indeed your slightest request were enough to make 
me forego my revenge, were that at any time a 
passion which I deeply cherish. Is it possible I 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


257 


would rather remember King Louis’s injuries, than 
your invaluable services ? — Yet how is this to be ? 
— When I am called before my Sovereign, the 
Duke of Burgundy, I must either stand silent, or 
speak the truth. The former would be contumacy ; 
and to a false tale you will not desire me to train 
my tongue.” 

“ Surely not,” said Durward ; “ but let your 
evidence concerning Louis be confined to what you 
yourself positively know to be truth ; and when you 
mention what others have reported, no matter how 
credibly, let it be as reports only, and beware of 
pledging your own personal evidence to that, which, 
.though you may fully believe, you cannot person- 
ally know to be true. The assembled Council of 
Burgundy cannot refuse to a Monarch the justice, 
which in my country is rendered to the meanest 
person under accusation. They must esteem him 
innocent, until direct and sufficient proof shall 
demonstrate his guilt. Now, what does not con- 
sist with your own certain knowledge, should be 
proved by other evidence than your report from 
hearsay.” 

“I think I understand you,” said the Countess 
Isabelle. 

“ I will make my meaning plainer,” said Quentin ; 
and was illustrating it accordingly by more than one 
instance, when the convent-bell tolled. 

“ That,” said the Countess, “ is a signal that we 
must part — part for ever ! — But do not forget me, 
Durward; I will never forget you — your faithful 
services ” 

She could not speak more, but again extended 
her hand, which was again pressed to his lips ; and 
I know not how it was, that, in endeavouring to 


258 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


withdraw her hand, the Countess came so close to 
the grating, that Quentin was encouraged to press 
the adieu on her lips. The young lady did not 
chide him — perhaps there was no time ; for Crbve- 
coeur and Crawford, who had been from some loop- 
hole eye-witnesses, if not ear-witnesses also, of 
what was passing, rushed into the apartment, the 
first in a towering passion, the latter laughing, and 
holding the Count back. 

“To your chamber, young mistress — to your 
chamber ! ” exclaimed the Count to Isabelle, who, 
flinging down her veil, retired in all haste, — “which 
should be exchanged for a cell, and bread and water. 
— And you, gentle sir, who are so malapert, the 
time will come when the interests of kings and 
kingdoms may not be connected with such as you 
are ; and you shall then learn the penalty of your 
audacity in raising your beggarly eyes ” 

“ H ush ! hush ! — enough said — rein up — rein up,” 
said the old Lord ; — “ and you, Quentin, I command 
you, be silent, and begone to your quarters. — There 
is no such room for so much scorn neither, Sir 
Count of Crbvecoeur, that I must say now he is out 
of hearing — Quentin Durward is as much a gentle- 
man as the King, only, as the Spaniard says, not so 
rich. He is as noble as myself, and I am chief of 
my name. Tush, tush ! man, you must not speak 
to us of penalties.” 

“ My lord, my lord,” said Crevecceur, impatiently, 
“ the insolence of these foreign mercenaries is pro- 
verbial, and should receive rather rebuke than 
encouragement from you, who are their leader.” 

“ My Lord Count,” answered Crawford, “ I have 
ordered my command for these fifty years, without 
advice either from Frenchman or Burgundian ; and 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


259 


I intend to do so, under your favour, so long as I 
shall continue to hold it.” 

“ Well, well, my lord,” said Crkvecoeur, “ I meant 
you no disrespect ; your nobleness, as well as your 
age, entitle you to be privileged in your impatience ; 
and for these young people, I am satisfied to over- 
look the past, since I will take care that they never 
meet again.” 

“Do not take that upon your salvation, Crkve- 
coeur,” said the old Lord, laughing ; “ mountains, it 
is said, may meet, and why not mortal creatures 
that have legs, and life and love to put those legs 
in motion ? Yon kiss, Crkvecoeur, came tenderly 
off — methinks it was ominous.” • 

“ You are striving again to disturb my patience,” 
said Crkvecoeur, “but I will not give you that 
advantage over me. — Hark ! they toll the summons 
to the Castle — an awful meeting, of which God 
only can foretell the issue.” 

“ This issue I can foretell,” said the old Scottish 
Lord, “ that if violence is to be offered to the person 
of the King, few as his friends are, and surrounded 
by his enemies, he shall neither fall alone nor un- 
avenged ; and grieved I am, that his own positive 
orders have prevented my taking measures to 
prepare for such an issue.” 

“My Lord of Crawford,” said the Burgundian, 
“to anticipate such evil is the sure way to give 
occasion to it. Obey the orders of your royal mas- 
ter, and give no pretext for violence by taking 
hasty offence, and you will find that the day will 
pass over more smoothly than you now conjecture.’’ 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE INVESTIGATION. 

Me rather had, my heart might feel your love, 

Thau my displeased eye see your courtesy. 

Up, cousin, up — your heart is up, I know. 

Thus high at least — although your knee — 

King Richard II. 

At the first toll of the hell, which was to sum- 
mon* the great nobles of Burgundy together in 
council, with the very few French peers who could 
be present on the occasion, Duke Charles, followed 
by a part of his train, armed with partisans and 
battle-axes, entered the Hall of Herbert’s Tower, 
in the Castle of Peronne. King Louis, who had 
expected the visit, arose and made two steps 
towards the Duke, and then remained standing with 
an air of dignity, which, in spite of the meanness 
of his dress, and the familiarity of his ordinary 
manners, he knew very well how to assume when 
he judged it necessary. Upon the present impor- 
tant crisis, the composure of his demeanour had an 
evident effect upon his rival, who changed the 
abrupt and hasty step with which he entered the 
apartment, into one more becoming a great vassal 
entering the presence of his Lord Paramount. 
Apparently the Duke had formed the internal re- 
solution to treat Louis, in the outset at least, with 
the formalities due to his high station ; but at the 
same time it was evident, that, in doing so, he put 
no small constraint upon the fiery impatience of his 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


261 


own disposition, and was scarce able to control the 
feelings of resentment, and the thirst of revenge, 
which boiled in his bosom. Hence, though he com- 
pelled himself to use the outward acts, and in some 
degree the language, of courtesy and reverence, 
his colour came and went rapidly — his voice was 
abrupt, hoarse, and broken — his limbs shook, as if 
impatient of the curb imposed on his motions — he 
frowned and bit his lip until the blood came — and 
every look and movement showed that the most 
passionate prince who ever lived, was under the 
dominion of one of his most violent paroxysms of 
fury. 

The King marked this war of passion with a 
calm and untroubled eye ; for, though he gathered 
from the Duke’s looks a foretaste of the bitterness 
of death, which he dreaded alike as a mortal and 
a sinful man,*yet he was resolved, like a wary and 
skilful pilot, neither to suffer himself to be discon- 
certed by his own fears, nor to abandon the helm, 
while there was a chance of saving the vessel by 
adroit pilotage. Therefore, when the Duke, in 
a hoarse and broken tone, said something of the 
scarcity of his accommodations, he answered with 
a smile, that he could not complain, since he had 
as yet found Herbert’s Tower a better residence 
than it had proved to one of his ancestors. 

“ They told you the •tradition then ? ” said Charles 
— “Yes — here he was slain — but it was because he 
refused to take the cowl, and finish his days in a 
monastery.” 

“ The more fool he,” said Louis, affecting un- 
concern, “ since he gained the torment of being a 
martyr, without the merit of being a saint.” 

“ I come,” said the Duke, “ to pray your Majesty 


262 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


to attend a high council, at which things of weight 
are to be deliberated upon concerning the welfare 
of France and Burgundy. You will presently meet 
them — that is, if such be your pleasure ” 

“ Nay, my fair cousin,” said the King, “ never 
strain courtesy so far, as to entreat what you may 
so boldly command — To council, since such is your 
Grace’s pleasure. We are somewhat shorn of our 
train,” he added, looking upon the small suite that 
arranged themselves to attend him — “ but you, 
cousin, must shine out for us both.” 

Marshalled by Toison d’Or, chief of the heralds 
of Burgundy, the Princes left the Earl Herbert’s 
Tower, and entered the castle-yard, which Louis 
observed was filled with the Duke’s body-guard 
and men-at-arms, splendidly accoutred, and drawn 
up in martial array. Crossing the court, they en- 
tered the Council-hall, which was in a much more 
modern part of the building than that of which 
Louis had been the tenant, and, though in disre- 
pair, had been hastily arranged for the solemnity 
of a public council. Two chairs of state were erected 
under the same canopy, that for the King being 
raised two steps higher than the one which the 
Duke was to occupy ; about twenty of the chief 
nobility sat, arranged in due order, on either hand 
of the chair of state ; and thus, when both the 
Princes were seated, the perstm for whose trial, as 
it might be called, the council was summoned, held 
the highest place, and appeared to preside in it. 

It was perhaps to get rid of this inconsistency, 
and the scruples which might have been inspired 
by it, that Duke Charles, having bowed slightly to 
the royal chair, bluntly opened the sitting with the 
following words : — 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


263 


“My good vassals and counsellors, it is not un- 
known to you what disturbances have arisen in our 
territories, both in our father’s time, and in our 
own, from the rebellion of vassals against superiors, 
and subjects against their princes. And lately, we 
have had the most dreadful proof of the height to 
which these evils have arrived in our case, by the 
scandalous flight of the Countess Isabelle of Croye, 
and her aunt the Lady Hameline, to take refuge 
with a foreign power, thereby renouncing their 
fealty to us, and inferring the forfeiture of their 
fiefs ; and in another more dreadful and deplorable 
instance, by the sacrilegious and bloody murder of 
our beloved brother and ally the Bishop of Liege, 
and the rebellion of that treacherous city, which 
was but too mildly punished for the last insurrec- 
tion. We have been informed that these sad events 
may be traced, not merely to the inconstancy and 
folly of women, and the presumption of pampered 
citizens, but to the agency of foreign power, and 
the interference of a mighty neighbour, from whom, 
if good deeds could merit any return in kind, Bur- 
gundy could have expected nothing but the most 
sincere and devoted friendship. If this should 
prove truth,” said the Duke, setting his teeth, and 
pressing his heel against the ground, “ what con- 
sideration shall withhold us — the means being in 
our power — from taking such measures, as shall 
effectually, and at the very source, close up the 
main spring, from which these evils have yearly 
flowed on us ? ” 

The Duke had begun his speech with some calm- 
ness, but he elevated his voice at the conclusion ; 
and the last sentence was spoken in a tone which 
made all the counsellors tremble, and brought a 


264 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


transient fit of paleness across the King’s cheek 
He instantly recalled his courage, however, and 
addressed the council in his turn, in a tone evin- 
cing so much ease and composure, that the Duke, 
though he seemed desirous to interrupt or stop him, 
found no decent opportunity to do so. 

“Nobles of France and of Burgundy,” he said, 
“ Knights of the Holy Spirit and of the Golden 
Fleece ! since a King must plead his cause as an 
accused person, he cannot desire more distinguished 
judges, than the flower of nobleness, and muster 
and pride of chivalry. Our fair cousin of Burgundy 
hath but darkened the dispute between us, in go far 
as his courtesy has declined to state it in precise 
terms. I, who have no cause for observing such 
delicacy, nay, whose condition permits me not to 
do so, crave leave to speak more precisely. It is to 
Us, my lords — to Us, his liege Lord, his kinsman, 
his ally, — that unhappy circumstances, perverting 
our cousin’s clear judgment and better nature, have 
induced him to apply the hateful charges of seducing 
his vassals from their allegiance, stirring up the 
people of Liege to revolt, and stimulating the out- 
lawed William de la Marck to commit a most cruel 
and sacrilegious murder. Nobles of France and 
Burgundy, I might truly appeal to the circumstances 
in which I now stand, as being in themselves a 
complete contradiction of such an accusation ; for 
is it to be supposed, that, having the sense of a 
rational being left me, I should have thrown myself 
unreservedly into the power of the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, while I was practising treachery against 
him, such as could not fail to be discovered, and 
which, being discovered, must place me, as I now 
stand, in the power of a justly exasperated prince ? 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


265 


The folly of one who should seat himself quietly 
down to repose on a mine, after he had lighted the 
match which was to cause instant explosion, would 
have been wisdom compared to mine. I have no 
doubt, that, amongst the perpetrators of those hor- 
rible treasons at Schonwaldt, villains have been 
busy with my name — but am I to be answerable, 
who have given them no right to use it ? — If two 
silly women, disgusted on account of some romantic 
cause of displeasure, sought refuge at my Court, 
does it follow that they djd so by my direction ? 
— It will be found, when enquired into, that, since 
honour and chivalry forbade my sending them back 
prisoners to the Court of Burgundy, — which I think, 
gentlemen, no one who wears the collar of these 
Orders would suggest, — that I came as nearly as 
possible to the same point, by placing them in the 
hands of the venerable father in God, who is now 
a saint in heaven.” — Here Louis seemed much 
affected, and pressed his kerchief to his eyes — “ In 
the hands, I say, of a member of my own family, 
and still more closely united with that of Burgundy, 
whose situation, exalted condition in the church, 
and, alas ! whose numerous virtues, qualified him 
to be the protector of these unhappy wanderers for 
a little while, and the mediator betwixt them and 
their liege Lord. I say, therefore, the only circum- 
stances which seem in my brother of Burgundy’s 
hasty view of this subject, to argue unworthy sus- 
picions against me, are such as can be explained 
on the fairest and most honourable motives ; and 
I say, moreover, that no one particle of credible 
evidence can be brought to support the injurious 
charges which have induced my brother to alter his 
friendly looks towards one who came to him in full 


266 QUENTIN DU R WARD. - 

confidence of friendship — have caused him to turn 
his festive hall into a court of justice, and his hos- 
pitable apartments into a prison.” 

“ My lord, my lord,” said Charles, breaking in 
so soon as the King paused, “ for your being here 
at a time so unluckily coinciding with the execution 
of your projects, I can only account by supposing, 
that those who make it their trade to impose on 
others, do sometimes egregiously delude themselves. 
The engineer is sometimes killed by the springing 
of his own petard.- — For what is to follow, let it 
depend on the event of this solemn enquiry. — Bring 
hither the Countess Isabelle of Croye ! ” 

As the young lady was introduced, supported on 
the one side by the Countess of Crkvecoeur, who 
had her husband’s commands to that effect, and on 
the other by the Abbess of the Ursuline convent, 
Charles exclaimed, with his usual harshness of voice 
and manner, — “ Soli ! sweet Princess — you, who 
could scarce find breath to answer us when we last 
laid our just and reasonable commands on you, yet 
have had wind enough to run as long a course as 
ever did hunted doe — what think you of the fair 
work you have made between two great Princes, 
and two mighty countries, that have been like to 
go to war for your baby face ? ” 

The publicity of the scene, and the violence of 
Charles’s manner, totally overcame the resolution 
which Isabelle had formed, of throwing herself at 
the Duke’s feet, and imploring him to take posses- 
sion of her estates, and permit her to retire into a 
cloister. She stood motionless, like a terrified female 
in a storm, who hears the thunder roll on every 
side of her, and apprehends, in every fresh peal, the 
bolt which is to strike her dead. The Countess of. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


267 


Cr&vecoeur, a woman of spirit equal to her birth, 
and to the beauty which she preserved even in her 
matronly years, judged it necessary to interfere. 
“ My Lord Duke,” she said, “ my fair cousin is 
under my protection. T know better than your 
Grace how women should be treated, and we will 
leave this presence instantly, unless you use a tone 
and language more suitable to our rank and sex.” 

The Duke burst out into a laugh. “ Cr&vecceur,” 
he said, “ thy tameness hath made a lordly dame of 
thy Countess ; but that is no affair of mine. Give 
a seat to yonder simple girl, to whom, so far from 
feeling enmity, I design the highest grace and 
honour. — Sit down, mistress, and tell us at your 
leisure what fiend possessed you to fly from your 
native country, and embrace the trade of a damsel 
adventurous.” 

With much pain, and not without several inter- 
ruptions, Isabelle confessed, that, being absolutely 
determined against a match proposed to her by the 
Duke of Burgundy, she had indulged the hope of 
obtaining protection of the Court of France. 

“And under protection of the French Monarch,” 
said Charles — “ Of that, doubtless, you were well 
assured ? ” 

“ I did indeed so think myself assured,” said the 
Countess Isabelle, “ otherwise I had not taken a step 
so decided.” — Here Charles looked upon Louis with 
a smile of inexpressible bitterness, which the King 
supported with the utmost firmness, except that his 
lip grew something whiter than it was wont to be. 
— “ But my information concerning King Louis’s 
intentions towards us,” continued the Countess, 
after a short pause, “ was almost entirely derived 
from my unhappy aunt, the Lady Hameline, and her 


268 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


opinions were formed upon the assertions and insin- 
uations of persons whom I have since discovered to 
be the vilest traitors, and most faithless wretches 
in the world.” She then stated, in brief terms, what 
she had since come to learn of the treachery of Mar- 
thon, and of Hayraddin Maugrabin, and added, that 
she “entertained no doubt that the elder Maugrabin, 
called Zamet, the original adviser of their flight, was 
capable of every species of treachery, as well as of 
assuming the character of an agent of Louis without 
authority.” 

There was a pause while the Countess had con- 
tinued her story, which she prosecuted, though very 
briefly, from the time she left the territories of Bur- 
gundy, in company with her aunt, until the storming 
of Schonwaldt, and her final surrender to the Count 
of Crkvecceur. All remained mute after she had fin- 
ished her brief and broken narrative, and the Duke 
of Burgundy bent his fierce dark eyes on the ground, 
like one who seeks for a pretext to indulge his pas- 
sion, but finds none sufficiently plausible to justify 
himself in his own eyes. “ The mole,” he said at 
length, looking upwards, “ winds not his dark sub- 
terranean path beneath our feet the less certainly, 
that we, though conscious of his motions, cannot ab- 
solutely trace them. Yet I would know of King 
Louis, wherefore he maintained these ladies at 
his Court, had they not gone thither by his own 
invitation.” 

“I did not so entertain them, fair cousin,” an- 
swered the King. “Out of compassion, indeed, I 
received them in privacy, but took an early opportu- 
nity of placing them under the protection of the 
late excellent Bishop, your own ally, and who was 
(may God assoil him !) a better judge than I, or any 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


269 

secular prince, how to reconcile the protection due 
to fugitives, with the duty which a king owes to his 
ally from whose dominions they have fled. I boldly 
ask this young lady, whether my reception of them 
was cordial, or whether it was not, on the contrary, 
such as made them express regret that they had 
made my Court their place of refuge ? ” 

“ So much was it otherwise than cordial, 1 ” an- 
swered the Countess, “that it induced me, at least, 
to doubt how far it was possible that your Majesty 
should have actually given the invitation of which 
we had been assured, by those who called themselves 
your agents ; since, supposing them to have pro- 
ceeded only as they were duly authorized, it would 
have been hard to reconcile your Majesty’s conduct 
with that to be expected from a king, a knight, and 
a gentleman.” 

The Countess turned her eyes to the King as she 
spoke, with a look which was probably intended as 
a reproach, but the breast of Louis was armed against 
all such artillery. On the contrary, waving slowly 
his expanded hands, and looking around the circle, 
he seemed to make a triumphant appeal to all pre- 
sent, upon the testimony borne to his innocence in 
the Countess’s reply. 

Burgundy, meanwhile, cast on him a look which 
seemed to say, that if in some degree silenced, he 
was as far as ever from being satisfied, and then 
said abruptly to the Countess, — “ Methinks, fair 
mistress, in this account of your wanderings, you 
have forgot all mention of certain love-passages — 
So, I10 ! blushing already ? — Certain knights of the 
forest, by whom your quiet was for a time inter- 
rupted. Well — that incident hath come to our ear, 
and something we may presently form out of it. — 


270 


QUENTIN DURWA11D. 


Tell me, King Louis, were it not well, before this 
vagrant Helen of Troy, or of Croye, set more kings 
by the ears, — were it not well to carve out a fitting 
match for her ? ” 

King Louis, though conscious what ungrateful 
proposal was likely to be made next, gave a calm 
and silent assent to what Charles said ; but the 
Countess herself was restored to courage by the very 
extremity of her situation. She quitted the arm of 
the Countess of Crbvecceur, on which she had hith- 
erto leaned, came forward timidly, yet with an air 
of dignity, and, kneeling before the Duke’s throne, 
thus addressed him : — “ Noble Duke of Burgundy, 
and my liege Lord; I acknowledge my fault in 
having withdrawn myself from your dominions 
without your gracious permission, and will most 
humbly acquiesce in any penalty you are pleased to 
impose. I place my lands and castles at your right- 
ful disposal, and pray you only of your own bounty, 
and for the sake of my father’s memory, to allow 
the last of the line of Croye, out of her large estate, 
such a moderate maintenance as may find her ad- 
mission into a convent for the remainder of her 
life.” 

“ What think you, Sire, of the young person’s pe- 
tition to us ? ” said the Duke, addressing Louis. 

“ As of a holy and humble motion,” said the King, 
“ which doubtless comes from that grace which 
ought not to be resisted or withstood.” 

“The humble and lowly shall be exalted,” said 
Charles. “ Arise, Countess Isabelle — we mean 
better for you than you have devised for yourself. 
We mean neither to sequestrate your estates, nor 
to abase your honours, but, on the contrary, will 
add largely to both.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


271 

Alas ! my lord,” said the Countess, continuing 
on her knees, “ it is even that well-meant goodness 
which I fear still more than your Grace’s displeasure, 
since it compels me ” 

“ Saint George of Burgundy ! ” said Duke Charles, 
“ is our will to be thwarted, and our commands dis- 
puted, at every turn ? Up, I say, minion, and with- 
draw for the present — when we have time to think 
of thee, we will so order matters, that, Teste-Saint - 
Gris ! you shall either obey us, or do worse.” 

Notwithstanding this stern answer, the Countess 
Isabelle remained at his feet, and would probably, 
by her pertinacity, have driven him to say upon the 
spot something yet more severe, had not the Coun- 
tess of Crkvecoeur, who better knew that Prince’s 
humour, interfered to raise her young friend, and to 
conduct her from the hall. 

Quentin Durward was now summoned to appear, 
and presented himself before the King and Duke 
with that freedom, distant alike from bashful re- 
serve and intrusive boldness, which becomes a 
youth at once well-born and well-nurtured, who 
gives honour where it is due, but without permit- 
ting himself to be dazzled or confused by the pre- 
sence of those to whom it is to be rendered. His 
uncle had furnished him with the means of again 
equipping himself in the arms and dress of an 
Archer of the Scottish Guard, and his complexion, 
mien, and air, suited in an uncommon degree his 
splendid appearance. His extreme youth, too, pre- 
possessed the counsellors in his favour, the rather 
that no one could easily believe that the sagacious 
Louis would have chosen so very young a person to 
become the confidant of political intrigues ; and thus 
the King enjoyed, in this as in other cases, consid- 


272 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


erable advantage from his singular choice of agents, 
both as to age and rank, where such election seemed 
least likely to be made. At the command of the 
Duke, sanctioned by that of Louis, Quentin com- 
menced an account of his journey with the Ladies 
of Croye to the neighbourhood of Liege, premising a 
statement of King Louis’s instructions, which were, 
that he should escort them safely to the castle of 
the Bishop. 

“And you obeyed my orders accordingly?” said 
the King. 

“ I did, Sire,” replied the Scot. 

“You omit a circumstance,” said the Duke. 
“You were set upon in the forest by two wan- 
dering knights.” 

“ It does not become me to remember or to pro- 
claim such an incident,” said the youth, blushing 
ingenuously. 

“ But it doth not become me to forget it,” said 
the Duke of Orleans. “ This youth discharged his 
commission manfully, and maintained his trust in a 
manner that I shall long remember. — Come to my 
apartment, Archer, when this matter is over, and 
thou shalt find I have not forgot thy brave bear- 
ing, while I am glad to see it is equalled by thy 
modesty.” 

“ And come to mine,” said Dunois. “ I have a 
helmet for thee, since I think I owe thee one.” 
Quentin bowed low to both, and the examination 
was resumed. At the command of Duke Charles, 
he produced the written instructions which he had 
received for the direction of his journey. 

“Did you follow these instructions literally, sol- 
dier ? ” said the Duke. 

“No, if it please your Grace,” replied Quentin. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


273 


“They directed me, as you may be pleased to ob- 
serve, to cross the Maes near Namur ; whereas I 
kept the left bank, as being both the nigher and 
the safer road to Liege.” 

“ And wherefore that alteration ? ” said the Duke. 

“Because I began to suspect the fidelity of my 
guide,” answered Quentin. 

“Now mark the questions I have next to ask 
thee,” said the Duke. “ Reply truly to them, and 
fear nothing from the resentment of any one. But 
if you palter or double in your answers, I will have 
thee hung alive in an iron chain from the steeple of 
the market-house, where thou shalt wish for death 
for many an hour ere he come to relieve you ! ” 

There was a deep silence ensued. At length, hav- 
ing given the youth time, as he thought, to consider 
the circumstances in which he was placed, the Duke 
demanded to know of Durward, who his guide was, 
by whom supplied, and wherefore he had been led 
to entertain suspicion of him ? To the first of these 
questions, Quentin Durward answered, by naming 
Hayraddin Maugrabin, the Bohemian; to the second, 
that the guide had been recommended by Tristan 
l’Hermite ; and in reply to the third point, he men- 
tioned what had happened in the Franciscan convent, 
near Namur ; how the Bohemian had been expelled 
from the holy house ; and how, jealous of his be- 
haviour, he had dogged him to a rendezvous with 
one of William de la Marck’s lanzknechts, where he 
overheard them arrange a plan for surprising the 
ladies who were under his protection. 

“Now, hark thee,” said the Duke, “and once more 
remember thy life depends on thy veracity, did these 
villains mention their having this King’s — I mean 
this very King Louis of France’s authority, for their 


274 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

scheme of surprising the escort, and carrying away 
the ladies ? ” 

“ If such infamous fellows had said so,” replied 
Quentin, “ I know not how I should have believed 
them, having the word of the King himself to place 
in opposition to theirs.” 

Louis, who had listened hitherto with most earn- 
est attention, could not help drawing his breath 
deeply, when he heard Durward’s answer, in the 
manner of one from whose bosom a heavy weight 
has been at once removed. The Duke again looked 
disconcerted and moody; and, returning to the charge, 
questioned Quentin still more closely, whether he did 
not understand, from these men’s private conversa- 
tion, that the plots which they meditated had King 
Louis’s sanction ? 

“ I repeat, that I heard nothing which could 
authorize me to say so,” answered the young man, 
who, though internally convinced of the King’s ac- 
cession to the treachery of Hayraddin, yet held it 
contrary to his allegiance to bring forward his own 
suspicions on the subject ; “ and if I had heard such 
men make such an assertion, I again say, that I would 
not have given their testimony weight against the in- 
structions of the King himself.” 

“ Thou art a faithful messenger,” said the Duke, 
with a sneer ; “ and I venture to say, that in obey- 
ing the King’s instructions, thou hast disappointed 
his expectations in a manner that thou mightst 
have smarted for, but that subsequent events 
have made thy bull-headed fidelity seem like good 
service.” 

“I understand you not, my lord,” said Quentin 
Durward; “all I know is, that my master King 
Louis sent me to protect these ladies* and that I 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


275 


did so accordingly, to the extent of my ability, both 
in the journey to Schonwaldt, and through the sub- 
sequent scenes which took place. I understood the 
instructions of the King to be honourable, and I 
executed them honourably ; had they been of a dif- 
ferent tenor, they would not have suited one of my 
name or nation.” 

“ Fier comme un Fcossois,” said Charles, who, 
however disappointed at the tenor of Durward’s 
reply, was not unjust enough to blame him for his 
boldness. “ But hark thee, Archer, what instruc- 
tions were those which made thee, as some sad 
fugitives from Schonwaldt have informed us, parade 
the streets of Liege, at the head of those mutineers, 
who afterwards cruelly murdered their temporal 
Prince and spiritual Father? And what harangue 
was it which thou didst make after that murder 
was committed, in which you took upon you, as 
agent for Louis, to assume authority among the 
villains who had just perpetrated so great a crime ? ” 

“ My lord,” said Quentin, “ there are many who 
could testify, that I assumed not the character of 
an envoy of France in the town of Liege, but had 
it fixed upon me by the obstinate clamours of the 
people themselves, who refused to give credit to 
any disclamation which I could make. This I told 
to those in the service of the Bishop when I had 
made my escape from the city, and recommended 
their attention to the security of the Castle, which 
might have prevented the calamity and horror of 
the succeeding night. It is, no doubt, true, that I 
did, in the extremity of danger, avail myself of the 
influence which my imputed character gave me, to 
save the Countess Isabelle, to protect my own life, 
and, so far as I could, to rein in the humour for 


2 76 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


slaughter, which had already broke out in so dread- 
ful an instance. I repeat, and will maintain it with 
my body, that .1 had no commission of any kind 
from the King of France, respecting the people of 
Liege, far less instructions to instigate them to mu- 
tiny ; and that, finally, when I did avail myself of 
that imputed character, it was as if I had snatched 
up a shield to protect myself in a moment of emer- 
gency, and used it, as I should surely have done, 
for the defence of myself and others, without en- 
quiring whether I had a right to the heraldic em- 
blazonments which it displayed.” 

“ And therein my young companion and pri- 
soner,” said Crkvecceur, unable any longer to remain 
silent, “ acted with equal spirit and good sense ; and 
his doing so cannot justly be imputed as blame to 
King Louis.” 

There was a murmur of assent among the sur- 
rounding nobility which sounded joyfully in the 
ears of King Louis, whilst it gave no little offence 
to Charles. He rolled his eyes angrily around ; and 
the sentiments, so generally expressed by so many 
of his highest vassals and wisest counsellors, would 
not perhaps have prevented his giving way to his 
violent and despotic temper, had not Des Comines, 
who foresaw the danger, prevented it, by suddenly 
announcing a herald from the city of Liege. 

“ A herald from weavers and nailers ? ” exclaimed 
the Duke — “but, admit him instantly. By Our 
Lady, I will learn from this same herald something 
further of his employers’ hopes and projects, than 
this young French-Scottish man-at-arms seems 
desirous to tell me ! ” 


CHAPTER XVL 


THE HERALD. 

Ariel. Hark ! they roar. 

Prospero. Let them be hunted soundly. 

The Tempest. 

There was room made in the assembly, and no 
small curiosity evinced by those present to see the 
herald whom the insurgent Liegeois had ventured 
to send to so haughty a Prince as the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, while in such high indignation against them. 
For it must be remembered, that at this period 
heralds were only dispatched from sovereign princes 
to each other upon solemn occasions ; and that the 
inferior nobility employed pursuivants, a lower rank 
of officers-at-arms. It may be also noticed in pass- 
ing, that Louis XI., an habitual derider of whatever 
did not promise real power or substantial advantage, 
was in especial a professed contemner of heralds 
and heraldry, “ red, blue, and green, with all their 
trumpery,” 1 to which the pride of his rival Charles, 
which was of a very different kind, attached no 
small degree of ceremonious importance. 

The herald, who was now introduced into the 
presence of the monarchs, was dressed in a tabard, 
or coat, embroidered with the arms of his master, 
in which the Boar’s-head made a distinguished ap- 
pearance, in blazonry, which, in the opinion of the 
1 For a remarkable instance of this, see Note IX. 


278 


QUENTIN DUE WARD. 


skilful, was more showy than accurate. The rest 
of his dress — a dress always sufficiently tawdry — 
was overcharged with lace, embroidery, and orna- 
ment of every kind ; and the plume of feathers 
which he wore was so high, as if intended to sweep 
the roof of the hall. In short, the usual gaudy 
splendour of the heraldic attire was caricatured and 
overdone. The Boar’s-head was not only repeated 
on every part of his dress, but even his bonnet was 
formed into that shape, and it was represented with 
gory tongue and bloody tusks, or, in proper lan- 
guage, langed and dentated gules; and there was 
something in the man’s appearance which seemed 
to imply a mixture of boldness and apprehension, 
like one who has undertaken a dangerous commis- 
sion, and is sensible that audacity alone can carry 
him through it with safety. Something of the same 
mixture of fear and effrontery was visible in the 
manner in which he paid his respects, and he 
showed also a grotesque awkwardness, not usual 
amongst those who were accustomed to be received 
in the presence of princes. 

“Who art thou, in the devil’s name?” was the 
greeting with which Charles the Bold received this 
singular envoy. 

“ I am Kouge Sanglier ,” answered the herald, 
“ the officer-at-arms of William de la Marck, by 
the grace of God, and the election of the Chapter, 
Prince Bishop of Liege.” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Charles ; but, as if subduing 
his own passion, he made a sign to him to proceed. 

“And, in right of his wife, the Honourable 
Countess Hameline of Croye, Count of Croye, and 
Lord of Bracquemont.” 

The utter astonishment of Duke Charles at the 


QUENTIN DURWAKD. 


279 


extremity of boldness with which these titles were 
announced in his presence, seemed to strike him 
dumb : and the herald, conceiving, doubtless, that he 
had made a suitable impression by the annunciation 
of his character, proceeded to state his errand. 

“Annuncio vobis gaudium magnum ,” he said ; 
“ I let you, Charles of Burgundy and Earl of Flan- 
ders, to know, in my master’s name, that under 
favour of a dispensation of our Holy Father of 
Rome, presently expected, and appointing a fitting 
substitute ad sacra, he proposes to exercise at once 
the office of Prince Bishop, and maintain the rights 
of Count of Croye.” 

The Duke of Burgundy, at this and other pauses 
in the herald’s speech, only ejaculated “Ha!” or 
some similar interjection, without making any an- 
swer ; and the tone of exclamation was that of one 
who, though surprised and moved, is willing to 
hear all that is to be said ere he commits himself 
by making an answer. To the further astonish- 
ment of all who were present, he forebore from his 
usual abrupt and violent gesticulations, remaining 
with the nail of his thumb pressed against his teeth, 
which was his favourite attitude when giving at- 
tention, and keeping his eyes bent on the ground, 
as if unwilling to betray the passion which might 
gleam in them. 

The envoy, therefore, proceeded boldly and un- 
abashed in the delivery of his message. “ In the 
name, therefore, of the Prince Bishop of Liege, 
and Count of Croye, I am to require of you, Duke 
Charles, to desist from those pretensions and en- 
croachments which you have made on the free and 
imperial city of Liege, by connivance with the late 
Louis of Bourbon, unworthy Bishop thereof. ” — 


280 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“ Ha ! ” again exclaimed the Duke. 

“ Also to restore the banners of the community, 
which you took violently from the town, to the 
number of six-and-tbirty ; — to rebuild the breaches 
in their walls, and restore the fortifications which 
you tyrannically dismantled, • — and to acknowledge 
my master, William de la Marck, as Prince Bishop, 
lawfully elected in a free Chapter of Canons, of 
which behold the procks- verbal.” 

“ Have you finished ? ” said the Duke. 

“ Not yet,” replied the envoy : “ I am further 
to require your Grace, on the part of the said right 
noble and venerable Prince, Bishop, and Count, 
that you do presently withdraw the garrison from 
the Castle of Bracquemont, and other places of 
strength, belonging to the Earldom of Croye, which 
have been placed there, whether in your own most 
gracious name, or in that of Isabelle, calling herself 
Countess of Croye, or any other; until it shall 
be decided by the Imperial Diet, whether the 
fiefs in question shall not pertain to the sister of 
the late Count, my most gracious Lady Hameline, 
rather than to his daughter, in respect of the jus 
emphyteusis” 

“ Your master is most learned,” replied the 
Duke. 

“Yet,” continued the herald, “the noble and 
venerable - Prince and Count will he disposed, all 
other disputes betwixt Burgundy and Liege being 
settled, to fix upon the Lady Isabelle such an ap- 
panage as may become her quality.” 

“ He is generous and considerate,” said the 
Duke, in the same tone. 

“Now, by a poor fool’s conscience,” said Le 
Glorieux. apart, to the Count of Crkvecoeur, “I 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


281 

•would rather be in the worst cow’s hide that ever 
died of the murrain, than in that fellow’s painted 
coat ! The poor man goes on like drunkards, who 
only look to the other pot, and not to the score 
which mine host chalks up behind the lattice.” 

“Have you yet done?” said the Duke to the 
herald. 

“ One word more,” answered Rouge Sanglier, 
“ from my noble and venerable lord aforesaid, re- 
specting his worthy and trusty ally, the Most 
Christian King ” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed the Duke, starting, and in a 
fiercer tone than he had yet used; but checking 
himself, he instantly composed himself again to 
attention. 

“ Which • most Christian King’s royal person it 
is rumoured that you, Charles of Burgundy, have 
placed under restraint, contrary to your duty as 
a vassal of the Crown of France, and to the faith 
observed among Christian Sovereigns. For which 
reason, my said noble and venerable master, by 
my mouth, charges you to put his Royal and Most 
Christian ally forthwith at freedom, or to receive 
the defiance which I am authorized to pronounce 
to you.” 

“ Have you yet done ? ” said the Duke. 

“ I have,” answered the herald, “ and await your 
Grace’s answer, trusting it may be such as will save 
the effusion of Christian blood.” 

“ Now ; by Saint George of Burgundy ” — - said the 
Duke ; — but ere he could proceed further, Louis 
arose, and struck in with a tone of so much dignity 
and authority, that Charles could not interrupt him. 

“ Under your favour, fair cousin of Burgundy,” 
said the King, “ we ourselves crave priority of 


282 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


voice in replying to this insolent fellow. — Sirrah 
herald, or whatever thou art, carry back notice to 
the perjured outlaw and murderer, William de la 
Marck, that the King of France will be presently 
before Liege, for the purpose of punishing the sa- 
crilegious murderer of his late beloved kinsman, 
Louis of Bourbon ; and that he proposes to gibbet 
De la Marck alive, for the insolence of terming 
himself his ally, and putting his royal name into 
the mouth of one of his own base messengers.” 

“Add whatever else on my part,” said Charles, 
“ which it may not misbecome a prince to send to 
a common thief, and murderer. — And begone ! — 
Yet stay. — Never herald went from the Court of 
Burgundy without having cause to cry, Largesse ! 
— ■ Let him be scourged till the bones are 'laid bare ! ” 

“ Nay, but if it please your Grace,” said Crfeve- 
coeur and D’Hymbercourt together, “ he is a herald, 
and so far privileged.” 

V It is you, Messires,” replied the Duke, “ who 
are such owls, as to think that the tabard makes 
the herald. I see by that fellow’s blazoning he is 
a mere impostor. Let Toison d’Or step forward, 
and question him in your presence.” 

In spite of his natural effrontery, the envoy of 
the Wild Boar of Ardennes now became pale ; and 
that notwithstanding some touches of paint with 
which he had adorned his countenance. Toison 
d’Or, the chief herald, as we have elsewhere said, 
of the Duke, and King-at-arms within his domi- 
nions, stepped forward with the solemnity of one 
who knew what was due to his office, and asked 
his supposed brother, in what College he had 
studied the science which he professed. 

“ I was bred a pursuivant at the Heraldic College 


QUENTIN DERWARD. 


283 


of Ratisbon,” answered Rouge Sanglier, “ and re- 
ceived the diploma of Ehrenhold from that same 
learned fraternity.” 

“ You could not derive it from a source more 
worthy,” answered Toison d’Or, bowing still lower 
than he had done before ; “ and if I presume to 
confer with you on the mysteries of our sublime 
science, in obedience to the orders of th§ most 
gracious Duke, it is not in hopes of giving, but 
of receiving knowledge.” 

“ Go to,” said the Duke, impatiently. “ Leave 
off ceremony, and ask him some question that 
may try his skill.” 

“ It were injustice to ask a disciple of the worthy 
College of .Arms at Ratisbon, if he comprehendeth 
the common terms of blazonry,” said Toison d’Or; 
“ but I may, without offence, crave of Rouge San- 
glier to say, if he is instructed in the more mysteri- 
ous and secret terms of the science, by which the 
more learned do emblematically, and as it were 
parabolically, express to each other what is con- 
veyed to others in the ordinary language, taught in 
tfre very accidence as it were of Heraldry ? ” 

“ I understand one sort of blazonry as well as 
another,” answered Rouge Sanglier, boldly; “but 
it may be we have not the same terms in Germany 
which you have here in Eland gig.” 

“ Alas, that you will say so ! ” replied Toison 
d’Or; “our noble science, which is indeed the very 
banner of nobleness, and glory of generosity, being 
the same in all Christian countries, nay, known and 
acknowledged even by the Saracens and Moors. I 
would, therefore, pray of you to describe what coat 
you will after the celestial fashion, that is, by the 
planets.” 


284 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ Blazon it yourself as you will,” said Rouge 
Sanglier; “I will do no such apish tricks upon 
commandment, as an ape is made to come aloft.” 

“ Show him a coat, and let him blazon it his own 
way,” said the Duke; “and if he fails, I promise 
him that his back shall be gules, azure, and sable.” 

“Here,” said the herald of Burgundy, taking 
from his pouch a piece of parchment, “ is a scroll, 
in which certain considerations led me to prick 
down, after my own poor fashion, an ancient coat. 
I will pray my brother, if indeed he belong to the 
honourable College of Arms at Ratisbon, to deci- 
pher it in fitting language.” 

Le Glorieux, who seemed to take great pleasure 
in this discussion, had by this time bustled himself 
close up to the two heralds. “ I will help thee, 
good fellow,” said he to Rouge Sanglier, as he 
looked hopelessly upon the scroll. “ This, my lords 
and masters, represents the cat looking out at the 
dairy-window.” ' 

This sally occasioned a laugh, which was some- 
thing to the advantage of Rouge Sanglier, as it led 
Toison d’Or, indignant at the misconstruction of 
his drawing, to explain it as the coat-of-arms 
assumed by Childebert, King of France, after he 
had taken prisoner Gandemar, King of Burgundy ; 
representing an ounce, or tiger-cat, the emblem of 
the captive prince, behind a grating, or, as Toison 
d’Or technically defined it, “ Sable, a musion pas- 
sant Or, oppressed with a trellis gules, clou£ of the 
second.” 

“ By my bauble,” said Le Glorieux, “ if the cat 
resemble Burgundy, she has the right side of the 
grating now-a-days.” 

“True, good fellow,” said Louis, laughing, while 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


285 


the rest of the presence, and even Charles himself 
seemed disconcerted at so broad a jest, — “I owe 
thee a piece of gold for turning something that 
looked like sad earnest, into the merry game which 
I trust it will end in.” 

“ Silence, Le Glorieux,” said the Duke ; “ and 
you, Toison d’Or, who are too learned to be intel- 
ligible, stand back, - — and bring that rascal forward, 
some of you. — Hark ye, villain,” he said, in his 
harshest tone, “ do you know the difference between 
argent and or, except in the shape of coined money ? ” 

“ For pity’s sake, your Grace, be good unto me ! 

— Noble King Louis, speak for me ! ” 

“ Speak for thyself,” said the Duke — “In a word, 
art thou herald or not ? ” 

“ Only for this occasion ! ” acknowledged the 
detected official. 

“ Now, by St. George ! ” said the Duke, eyeing 
Louis askance, “ we know no king — no gentleman 

— save one , who would have so prostituted the 
noble science on which royalty and gentry rest ! 
save that King, who sent to Edward of England a 
serving man disguised as a herald.” 1 (d) 

“ Such a stratagem,” said Louis, laughing or 
affecting to laugh, “could only be justified at a 
Court where no heralds were at the time, and when 
the emergency was urgent. But, though it might 
have passed on the blunt and thick-witted islander, 
no one with brains a whit better than those of a 
wild boar would have thought of passing such a 
trick upon the accomplished Court of Burgundy.” 

“Send him who will,” said the Duke, fiercely, 
“he shall return on their hands in poor case, — 


1 Note IX. — Disguised Herald. 


286 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

Here ! — drag him to the market-place ! — slash him 
with bridle-reins and dog-whips until the tabard 
hang about him in tatters ! — Upon the Rouge San- 
glier ! — Qa, qa ! — Haloo, haloo ! ” 

Four or five large hounds, such as are painted 
in the hunting-pieces upon which Rubens and 
Schneiders laboured in conjunction, caught the 
well-known notes with which the Duke concluded, 
and began to yell and bay as if the boar were just 
roused from his lair. 

“ By the rood ! ” said King Louis, observant to 
catch the vein of his dangerous cousin, “ since the 
ass has put on the boar’s hide, I would set the dogs 
on him to bait him out of it ! ” 

“ Right ! right ! ” exclaimed Duke Charles, the 
fancy exactly chiming in with his humour at 
the moment — “ it shall be done ! — uncouple the 
hounds ! — Hyke a Talbot ! hyke a Beaumont ! — 
We will course him from the door of the Castle to 
the east gate.” 

“ I trust your Grace will treat me as a beast of 
chase,” said the fellow, putting the best face he 
could upon the matter, “ and allow me fair law ? ” 

“ Thou art but vermin,” said the Duke, “ and 
entitled to no law, by the letter of the book of 
hunting ; nevertheless thou shalt have sixty yards 
in advance, were it but for the sake of thy unparal- 
leled impudence. — Away, away, sirs ! — we will see 
this sport.” — And the council breaking up tumultu- 
ously, all hurried, none faster than the two Princes, 
to enjoy the humane pastime which King Louis had 
suggested. 

The Rouge Sanglier showed excellent sport ; for, 
winged with terror, and having half a score of 
fierce boar-hounds hard at his haunches, encou- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


287 


raged by the blowing of horns and the woodland 
cheer of the hunters, he flew like the very wind, 
and had he not been encumbered with his herald’s 
coat, (the worst possible habit for a runner,) he 
might fairly have escaped dog-free ; he also doubled 
once or twice, in a manner much approved of by the 
spectators. None of these, nay, not even Charles 
himself, was so delighted with the sport as King 
Louis, who, partly from political considerations, 
and partly as being naturally pleased with the sight 
of human suffering when ludicrously exhibited, 
laughed till the tears ran from his eyes, and in his 
ecstasies of rapture, caught hold of the Duke’s 
ermine cloak, as if to support himself ; whilst the 
Duke, no less delighted, flung his arm around the 
King’s shoulder, making thus an exhibition of con- 
fidential sympathy and familiarity, very much at 
variance with the terms on which they had so lately 
stood together. 

At length the speed of the pseudo-herald could 
save him no longer from the fangs of his pursuers ; 
they seized him, pulled him down, and would pro- 
bably soon have throttled him, had nbt the Duke 
called out — “ Stave and tail ! — stave and tail ! — 
Take them off him ! — He hath shown so good a 
course, that, though he has made no sport at bay, 
we will not have him dispatched.” 

Several officers accordingly busied themselves in 
taking off the dogs ; and they were soon seen coup- 
ling some up, and pursuing others which ran through 
the streets, shaking in sport and triumph the tat- 
tered fragments of painted cloth and embroidery 
rent from the tabard, which the unfortunate wearer 
had put on in an unlucky hour. 

At this moment, and while the Duke was too 


288 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

much engaged with what passed before him to 
mind what was said behind him, Oliver le Dain, 
gliding behind King Louis, whispered into his ear 

— “ It is the Bohemian, Hayraddin Maugrabin — 
It were not well he should come to speech of the 
Duke.” 

“ He must die,” answered Louis, in the same tone 

— “ dead men tell no tales.” 

One instant afterwards, Tristan l’Hermite, to 
whom Oliver had given the hint, stepped forward 
before the King and the Duke, and said, in his 
blunt manner, “ So please your Majesty and your 
Grace, this piece of game is mine, and I claim him 

— he is marked with my stamp — the fleur-de-lis is 

branded on his shoulder, as all men may see. — He 
is a known villain, and hath slain the King’s sub- 
jects, robbed churches, deflowered virgins, slain deer 
in the royal parks ” ■ 

“ Enough, enough,” said Duke Charles, “ he is 
my royal cousin’s property by many a good title. 
What will your Majesty do with him ? ” 

“ If he is left to my disposal,” said the King, “ I 
will at least give him one lesson in the science of 
heraldry, in which he is so ignorant — only explain 
to him practically, the meaning of a cross potencc , 
with a noose dangling proper.” 

“ Not as to be by him borne, but as to bear him. 

— Let him take the degrees under your gossip Tris- 
tan — he is a deep professor in such mysteries.” 

Thus answered the Duke, with a burst of dis- 
cordant laughter at his own wit, which was so cor- 
dially chorussed by Louis, that his rival could not 
help looking kindly at him, while he said — 

“ Ah, Louis, Louis ! would to God thou wert as 
faithful a monarch as thou art a merry companion ! 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


289 


I cannot but think often on the jovial time we 
used to spend together.” 

“ You may bring it back when you will,” said 
Louis ; “ I will grant you as fair terms as for very 
shame’s sake you ought to ask in my present con- 
dition, without making yourself the fable of Chris- 
tendom ; and I will swear to observe them upon 
the holy relique which I have ever the grace to 
bear about my person, being a fragment of the true 
cross.” 

Here he took a small golden reliquary, which 
was suspended from his neck next to his shirt by 
a chain of the same metal, and having kissed it 
devoutly, continued — 

“ Never was false oath sworn on this most sacred 
relique, but it was avenged within the year.” 

“ Yet,” said the Duke, “ it was the same on which 
you swore amity to me when you left Burgundy, 
and shortly after sent the Bastard of Rubemprd to 
murder or kidnap me.” 

“Nay, gracious cousin, now you are ripping up 
ancient grievances,” said the King ; “ I promise you, 
that you were deceived in that matter. — Moreover, 
it was not upon this relique which I then swore, but 
upon another fragment of the true cross which I 
got from the Grand Seignior, weakened in virtue, 
doubtless, by sojourning with infidels. Besides, did 
not the war of the Public Good break out within 
the year ; and was not a Burgundian army en- 
camped at Saint Dennis, backed by all the great 
feudatories of France; and was I not obliged to 
yield up Normandy to my brother? — 0 God, shield 
us from perjury on such a warrant as this ! ” 

“ Well, cousin,” answered the Duke ; “ I do be- 
lieve thou hadst a lesson to keep faith another time. 


290 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


— And now for once, without finesse and doubling, 
will you make good your promise, and go with 
me to punish, this murdering La Marck and the 
Liegeois ?” 

• “ I will march against them,” said Louis, “ with 
the Ban, and Arrikre-Ban of France, and the Ori- 
flamme displayed.” 

“ Nay, nay,” said the Duke, “ that is more than 
is needful, or maybe advisable. The presence of 
your Scottish Guard, and two hundred choice 
lances, will serve to show that you are a free 
agent. A large army might ” 

“Make me so in effect, you would say, my fair 
cousin ? ” said the King. “ Well, you shall dictate 
the numbers of my attendants.” 

“ And to put this fair cause of mischief out of the 
way, you will agree to the Countess Isabelle of 
Croye wedding with the Duke of Orleans ? ” 

“Fair cousin,” said the King, “you drive my 
courtesy to extremity. The Duke is the betrothed 
bridegroom of my daughter Joan. Be generous — 
yield up this matter, and let us speak rather of the 
towns on the Somme.” 

“ My council will talk to your Majesty of these,” 
said Charles; “I myself have less at heart the 
acquisition of territory, than the redress of injuries. 
You have tampered with my vassals,, and your 
royal pleasure must needs dispose of the hand of 
a Ward of Burgundy. Your Majesty must bestow 
it within the pale of your own royal family, since 
you have meddled with it — otherwise, our con- 
ference breaks off.” 

“Were I to say I did this willingly,” said the 
King, “ no one would believe me ; therefore, do you, 
my fair cousin, judge of the extent of my wish to 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


291 


oblige you, when I say, most reluctantly, that the 
parties consenting, and a dispensation from the 
Pope being obtained, my own objections shall be no 
bar to this match which you propose.” 

“ All besides can be easily settled by our minis- 
ters,” said the Duke, “ and we are once more cousins 
and friends.” 

“ May Heaven be praised ! ” said Louis, “ who, 
holding in his hand the hearts of princes, doth 
mercifully incline them to peace and clemency, and 
prevent the effusion of human blood. — Oliver,” he 
added apart to that favourite, who ever waited 
around him like the familiar beside a sorcerer, 
“ Hark thee — tell Tristan to be speedy in dealing 
with yonder runagate Bohemian.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE EXECUTION. 

I’ll take thee to the good green .wood, 

And make thine own hand choose the tree. 

Old Ballad. 

“ Now God be praised, that gave us the power 
of laughing, and making others laugh, and shame 
to the dull cur who scorns the office of a jester ! 
Here is a joke, and that none of the brightest, 
(though it may pass, since it has amused two 
Princes,) which hath gone farther than a thousand 
reasons of state to prevent a war between France 
and Burgundy.” 

Such was the inference of Le Glorieux, when, in 
consequence of the reconciliation of which we gave 
the particulars in the last Chapter, the Burgundian 
guards were withdrawn from the Castle of Peronne, 
the abode of the King removed from the ominous 
Tower of Count Herbert, and, to the great joy 
both of French and Burgundians, an outward show 
at least of confidence and friendship seemed so 
established between Duke Charles and his liege 
lord. Yet still the latter, though treated with 
ceremonial observance, was sufficiently aware that 
he continued to be the object of suspicion, though 
he prudently affected to overlook it, and appeared 
to consider himself as entirely at his ease. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


293 


Meanwhile, as frequently happens in such cases, 
whilst the principal parties concerned had so far 
made up their differences, one of the subaltern 
agents concerned in their intrigues was bitterly 
experiencing the truth of the political maxim, that 
if the great have frequent need of base tools, they 
make amends to society by abandoning them to their 
fate, so soon as they find them no longer useful. 

This was Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, surren- 
dered by the Duke’s officers to the King’s Provost- 
Marshal, was by him placed in the hands of his two 
trusty aides-de-camp, Trois-Eschelles and Petit- 
Andrd, to be dispatched without loss of time. One 
on either side of him, and followed by a few guards 
and a multitude of rabble, — this playing the Alle- 
gro, tl^at the Penseroso, — he was marched off (to use 
a modern comparison, like Garrick between Tragedy 
and Comedy) to the neighbouring forest ; where, to 
save all further trouble and ceremonial of a gibbet, 
and so forth, the disposers of his fate proposed to 
knit him up to the first sufficient tree. 

They were not long in finding an oak, as Petit- 
Andrd facetiously expressed it, fit to bear such an 
acorn ; and placing the wretched criminal on a bank, 
under a sufficient guard, they began their extempo- 
raneous preparations for the final catastrophe. At 
that moment, Hayraddin, gazing on the crowd, 
encountered the eyes of Quentin Durward, who, 
thinking he recognised the countenance of his faith- 
less guide in that of the detected impostor, had fol- 
lowed with the crowd to witness the execution, and 
assure himself of the identity. 

When the executioners informed him that all was 
ready, Hayraddin, with much calmness, asked a 
single boon at their hands. 


294 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“ Any thing, my son, consistent with our office,” 
said Trois-Eschelles. 

“ That is,” said Hayraddin, “ any thing but my 
life.” 

“ Even so,” said Trois-Eschelles, “ and something 
more ; for as you seem resolved to do credit to 
our mystery, and die like a man, without making 
wry mouths— why, though our orders are to be 
prompt, I care not if I indulge you ten minutes 
longer.” 

“ You are even too generous,” said Hayraddin. 

“Truly we may be blamed for it,” said Petit- 
Andr£ ; “ but what of that ? — I could consent 
almost to give my life for such a jerry-come-tumble, 
such a smart, tight, firm lad, who proposes to come 
from aloft with a grace, as an honest fellow ^Jiould 
do.” 

“So that if you want a confessor,” said Trois- 
Eschelles — 

“ Or a lire of wine,” said his facetious compan- 
ion — 

“ Or a psalm,” said Tragedy 

“ Or a song,” said Comedy 

“Neither, my good, kind, and most expeditious 
friends,” said the Bohemian — “I only pray to speak 
a few minutes with yonder Archer of the Scottish 
Guard.” 

The executioners hesitated a moment ; but Trois- 
Eschelles recollecting that Quentin Durward was 
believed, from various circumstances., to stand high 
in the favour of their master, King Louis, they 
resolved to permit the interview. 

When Quentin, at their summons, approached 
the condemned criminal, he could not but be shocked 
at his appearance, however justly his doom might 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


295 


have been deserved. The remnants of his heraldic 
finery, rent to tatters by the fangs of the dogs, and 
the clutches of the bipeds who had rescued him 
from their fury to lead him to the gallows, gave 
him at once a ludicrous and a wretched appearance. 
His face was discoloured with paint, and with some 
remnants of a fictitious beard, assumed for the pur- 
pose of disguise, and there was the paleness of death 
upon his cheek and upon his lip ; yet, strong in 
passive courage, like most of his tribe, his eye, 
while it glistened and wandered, as well as the con- 
torted smile of his mouth, seemed to bid defiance 
to the death he was about to die. 

Quentin was struck partly with horror, partly 
with compassion, as he approached the miserable 
man, and these feelings probably betrayed them- 
selves in his manner, for Petit-Andr4 called out, 
“ Trip it more smartly, jolly Archer — This gentle- 
man’s leisure cannot wait for you, if you walk as if 
the pebbles were eggs, and you afraid of breaking 
them.” 

“ I must speak with him in privacy,” said the 
criminal, despair seeming to croak in his accent as 
he uttered the words. 

“ That may hardly consist with our office, my 
merry Leap-the-ladder,” said Petit- Andrd ; “ we 
know you for a slippery eel of old.” 

“I am tied with your horse-girths, hand and 
foot,” said the criminal — “ You may keep guard 
around me, though out of ear-shot — the Archer is 
your own King’s servant — And if I give you ten 
gilders ” 

“ Laid out in masses, the sum may profit his poor 
soul,” said Trois-Eschelles. 

“Laid out in wine or brantwein, it will comfort 


296 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


my poor body/’ responded Petit-Andrd. “So let 
them be forthcoming, my little crack-rope.” 

“ Pay the blood-hounds their fee,” said Hay- 
raddin to Durward; “I was plundered of every 
stiver when they took me — it shall avail thee 
much.” 

Quentin paid the executioners their guerdon, 
and, like men of promise, they retreated out of 
hearing — keeping, however, a careful eye on the 
criminal’s motions. After waiting an instant till 
the unhappy man should speak, as he still remained 
silent, Quentin at length addressed him, “And to 
this conclusion thou hast at length .arrived ? ” 

“ Ay,” answered Hayraddin, “ it required neither 
astrologer, nor physiognomist, nor chiromantist, to 
foretell that I should follow the destiny of my 
family.” 

“Brought to this early end by thy long course 
of crime and treachery ! ” said the Scot. 

“ No, by the bright Aldeboran and all his brother 
twinklers ! ” answered the Bohemian. “ I am 
brought hither by my folly, in believing that the 
bloodthirsty cruelty of a Frank could be restrained 
even by what they themselves profess to hold most 
sacred. A priest’s vestment would have been no 
safer garb for me than a herald’s tabard, however 
sanctimonious are your professions of devotion and 
chivalry.” 

“ A detected impostor has no right to claim the 
immunities of the disguise he had usurped,” said 
Durward. 

“ Detected ! ” said the Bohemian. “ My jargon 
was as good as yonder old fool of a herald’s ; — but 
let it pass. As well now as hereafter.” 

“ You abuse time,” said Quentin. “ If you have 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


297 


aught to tell me, say it quickly, and then take some 
care of your soul.” 

“ Of my soul ? ” said the Bohemian, with a hid- 
eous laugh. “ Think ye a leprosy of twenty years 
can he cured in an instant ? — If I have a soul, it 
hath been in such a course since I was ten years old 
and more, that it would take me one month to recall 
all my crimes, and another to tell them to the priest ; 
— and were such space granted me, it is five to one 
I would employ it otherwise.” 

“ Hardened wretch, blaspheme not ! Tell me 
what thou hast to say, and I leave thee to thy 
fate,” said Durward, with mingled pity and horror. 

“ I have a boon to ask,” said Hayraddin, — “ but 
first I will buy it of you ; for your tribe, with all 
their professions of charity, give nought for nought.” 

“ I could wellnigh say thy gifts perish with thee,” 
answered Quentin, “ but that thou art on the very 
verge of eternity. — Ask thy boon — reserve thy 
bounty — it can do me no good — I remember enough 
of your good offices of old.” 

“Why, I loved you,” said Hayraddin, “ for the 
matter that chanced on the banks of the Cher; and 
I would have helped you to a wealthy dame. You 
wore her scarf, which partly misled me ; and indeed 
I thought that Hameline, with her portable wealth, 
was more for your market-penny than the other 
hen-sparrow, with her old roost at Bracquemont, 
which Charles has clutched, and is likely to keep 
his claws upon.” 

“ Talk not so idly, unhappy man,” said Quentin ; 
“ yonder officers become impatient.” 

“ Give them ten gildei% for ten minutes more,” 
said the culprit, — who, like most in his situation, 
mixed with his hardihood a desire of procrastina- 


2 98 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

ting his fate, — “I tell thee it shall avail thee 
much.” 

“Use then well the minutes so purchased,’ ” said 
Durward, and easily made a new bargain with the 
Marshal’s men. 

This done, Hayraddin continued. — “ Yes, I 
assure you I meant you well ; and Hameline would 
have proved an easy and convenient spouse. Why, 
she has reconciled herself even with the Boar of 
Ardennes, though his mode of wooing was some- 
what of the roughest, and lords it yonder in his sty, 
as if she had fed on mast-husks and acorns all her 
life.” 

“Cease this brutal and untimely jesting,” said 
Quentin, “ or, once more I tell you, I will leave 
you to your fate.” 

“ You are right,” said Hayraddin, after a mo- 
ment’s pause ; “ what cannot be postponed must be 
faced! — Well, know then, I came hither in this 
accursed disguise, moved by a great reward from 
De la Marck, and hoping a yet mightier one from 
King Louis, not merely to bear the message of de- 
fiance which you may have heard of, but to tell the 
King an important secret.” 

“ It was a fearful risk,” said Durward. 

“ It was paid for as such, and such it hath 
proved,” answered the Bohemian. “ De la Marck 
attempted before to communicate with Louis by 
means of Marthon ; but she could not, it seems, ap- 
proach nearer to him than the astrologer, to whom 
she told all the passages of the journey, and of 
Schonwaldt ; but it is a chance if her tidings ever 
reach Louis, except in the shape of a prophecy. 
But hear my secret, which is more important than 
aught she could tell. William de la Marck has 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


299 


assembled a numerous and strong force within the 
city of Liege, and augments it daily by means of the 
old priest’s treasures. But he proposes not to haz- 
ard a battle with the chivalry of Burgundy, and 
still less to stand a siege in the dismantled town 
This he will do — he will suffer the hot-brained 
Charles to sit down before the place without opposi- 
tion ; and in the night, make an outfall or sally 
upon the leaguer with his whole force. Many he 
will have in French armour, who will cry France, 
Saint Louis, and Denis Montjoye, as if there were a 
strong body of French auxiliaries in the city. This 
cannot choose but strike utter confusion among the 
Burgundians ; and if King Louis, with his guards, 
attendants, and such soldiers as he may have with 
him, shall second his efforts, the Boar of Ardennes 
nothing doubts the discomfiture of the whole Bur- 
gundian army. — There is my secret, and I bequeath 
it to you. Forward, or prevent the enterprise — sell 
the intelligence to King Louis, or to Duke Charles, 
I care not — save or destroy whom thou wilt ; for 
my part, I only grieve that I cannot spring it like a 
mine, to the destruction of them all ! ” 

“ It is indeed an important secret,” said Quentin, 
instantly comprehending how easily the national 
jealousy might be awakened in a camp consisting 
partly of French, partly of Burgundians. 

“ Ay, so it is,” answered Hayraddin ; “ and, now 
you have it, you would fain begone, and leave me 
without granting the boon for which I have paid 
beforehand.” 

“ Tell me thy request,” said Quentin — “I will 
grant it if it be in my power.” 

“ Kay, it is no mighty demand — it is only in be- 
half of poor Klepper, my palfrey, the only living 


3°o 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


thing that may miss me. — A due mile south, you 
will find him feeding by a deserted collier’s hut; 
whistle to him thus,” — (he whistled a peculiar note,) 
“ and call him by his name, Klepper, he will come to 
you ; here is his bridle under my gaberdine — it is 
lucky the hounds got it not, for he obeys no other. 
Take him, and make much of him — I do not say for 
his master’s sake, — but because I have placed at 
your disposal the event of a mighty war. He will 
never fail you at need — night and day, rough and 
smooth, fair and foul, warm stables and the winter 
sky, are the same to Klepper; had I cleared the 
gates of Peronne, and got so. far as where I left him, 
I had not been in this case. — Will you be kind to 
Klepper ? ” 

" I swear to you that I will,” answered Quentin, 
affected by what seemed a trait of tenderness in a 
character so hardened. 

“ Then fare thee well ! ” said the criminal — “ Yet 
stay — stay — I would not willingly die in discour- 
tesy, forgetting a lady’s commission. — This billet 
is from the very gracious and extremely silly Lady 
of the Wild Boar of Ardennes, to her black-eyed 
niece — I see by your look I have chosen a willing 
messenger. — And one word more — I forgot to say, 
that in the stuffing of my saddle you will find a rich 
purse of gold pieces, for the sake of which I put my 
life on the venture which has cost me so dear. Take 
them, and replace a hundred-fold the gilders you 
have bestowed on these bloody slaves — I make you 
mine heir.” 

“ I will bestow them in good works, and masses 
for the benefit of thy soul,” said Quentin. 

“ Name not that word again,” said Havraddin, 
his countenance assuming a dreadful expression; 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


301 

“ there is — there can be — there shall be — no such 
thing ! — it is a dream of priestcraft ! ” 

“Unhappy — most unhappy being! Think bet- 
ter !— let me speed for a priest — these men will 
delay yet a little longer — I will aribe them to it,” 
said Quentin — “ What canst thou expect, dying in 
such opinions, and impenitent ? ” 

“ To be resolved into the elements,” said the har- 
dened atheist, pressing his fettered arms against his 
bosom; “my hope, trust, and expectation is, that 
the mysterious frame of humanity shall melt into 
the general mass of nature, to be recompounded in the 
other forms with which she daily supplies those 
which daily disappear, and return under different 
forms, — the watery particles to streams and show- 
ers, the earthly parts to enrich their mother earth, 
the airy portions to wanton in the breeze, and those 
of fire to supply the blaze of Aldeboran and his 
brethren — In this faith have I lived, and I will die 
in it ! — Hence ! begone ! — disturb me no farther ! 
— I have spoken the last word that mortal ears 
shall listen to ! ” 

Deeply impressed with the horrors of his con- 
dition, Quentin Durward yet saw that it was vain 
to hope to awaken him to a sense of his fearful 
state. He bid him, therefore, farewell ; to which the 
criminal only replied by a short and sullen nod, as 
one who, plunged in reverie, bids adieu to company 
which distracts his thoughts. He bent his course 
towards the forest, and easily found where Klepper 
was feeding. The creature came at his call, but was 
for some time unwilling to be caught, snuffing and 
starting when the stranger approached him. At 
length, however, Quentin’s general acquaintance 
with the habits of the animal, and perhaps some 


302 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


particular knowledge of those of Klepper, which he 
had often admired while Hayraddin and he travelled 
together, enabled him to take possession of the Bo- 
hemian’s dying bequest. Long ere he returned to 
Peronne, the Bohemian had gone where the vanity 
of his dreadful creed was to be put to the final issue 
— a fearful experience for one who had neither 
expressed remorse for the past, nor apprehension 
for the future ! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A PRIZE FOR HONOUR. 

’Tis brave for Beauty when the best blade wins her. 

The Count Palatine. 


When Quentin Durward reached Peronne, a coun- 
cil was sitting, in the issue of which he was inter- 
ested more deeply than he could have apprehended, 
and which, though held by persons of a rank with 
whom one of his could scarce be supposed to have 
community of interest, had nevertheless the most 
extraordinary influence on his fortunes. 

King Louis, who, after the interlude of De la 
Marck’s envoy, had omitted no opportunity to cul- 
tivate the returning interest which that circumstance 
had given him in the Duke’s opinion, had been en- 
gaged in consulting him, or, it might be almost said, 
receiving his opinion, upon the number and quality 
of the troops, by whom, as auxiliary to the Duke 
of Burgundy, he was to be attended in their joint 
expedition against Liege. He plainly saw the wish 
of Charles was to call into his camp such French- 
men as, from their small number and high quality, 
might be considered rather as hostages than as auxi- 
liaries ; but, observant of Crevecoeur’s advice, he 
assented as readily to whatever the Duke proposed, 
as if it had arisen from the free impulse of his own 
mind. 


3°4 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


The King failed not, however, to indemnify him- 
self for his complaisance, by the indulgence of his 
vindictive temper against Balue, whose counsels 
had led him to repose such exuberant trust in the 
Duke of Burgundy. Tristan, who bore the sum- 
mons for moving up his auxiliary forces, had the 
farther commission to carry the Cardinal to the 
Castle of Loches, and there shut him up in one of 
those iron cages, which he himself is said to have 
invented. 

“ Let him make proof of his own devices,” said 
the King ; “he is a man of holy church — we may 
not shed his blood ; but, Pasques-dieu ! his bishop- 
ric, for ten years to come, shall have an impreg- 
nable frontier to make up for its small extent ! — 
And see the troops are brought up instantly.” 

Perhaps, by this prompt acquiescence, Louis 
hoped to evade the more unpleasing condition with 
which the Duke had clogged their reconciliation. 
But if he so hoped, he greatly mistook the temper of 
his cousin ; for never man lived more tenacious 
of his purpose than Charles of Burgundy, and least 
of all was he willing to relax any stipulation which 
he had made in resentment, or revenge, of a sup- 
posed injury. 

No sooner were the necessary expresses dispatched 
to summon up the forces who were selected to act 
as auxiliaries, than Louis was called upon by his 
host to give public consent to the espousals of the 
Duke of Orleans and Isabelle of Croye. The King 
complied with a heavy sigh, and presently after 
urged a slight expostulation, founded upon the 
necessity of observing the wishes of the Duke 
himself. 

“ These have not been neglected/’ said the Duke 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


305 


of Burgundy ; “ Crkvecoeur hath communicated with 
Monsieur d’Orleans, and finds him (strange to say) 
so dead to the honour of wedding a royal bride, 
that he acceded to the proposal of marrying the 
Countess of Croye, as the kindest proposal which 
father could have made to him.” 

“ He is the more ungracious and thankless,” said 
Louis; “but the whole shall be as you, my cousin, 
will ; if you can bring it about with consent of the 
parties themselves.” 

“ Fear not that,” said the Duke ; and accord- 
ingly, not many minutes after the affair had been 
proposed, the Duke of Orleans and the Countess 
of Croye, the latter attended, as on the preceding 
occasion, by the Countess of Crevecoeur, and the 
Abbess of the Ursulines, were summoned to the 
presence of the Princes, and heard from the mouth 
of Charles of Burgundy, un objected to by that of 
Louis, who sat in silent and moody consciousness 
of diminished consequence, that the union of their 
hands was designed by the wisdom of both Princes, 
to confirm the perpetual alliance which in future 
should take place betwixt France and Burgundy. 

The Duke of Orleans had much difficulty in sup- 
pressing the joy which he felt upon the proposal, 
and which delicacy rendered improper in the pre- 
sence of Louis ; and it required his habitual awe 
of that monarch, to enable him to rein in his de- 
light, so much as merely to reply, “ that his duty 
compelled him to place his choice at the disposal of 
his Sovereign.” 

“ Fair cousin of Orleans,” said Louis, with sullen 
gravity, “ since I must speak on so unpleasant an 
occasion, it is needless for me to remind you, that 
my sense of your merits had led me to propose for 


3o 6 


QUENTIN DU 11 WARD. 


you a match into my own family. But, since my 
cousin of Burgundy thinks, that the disposing of 
your hand otherwise is the surest pledge of amity 
between his dominions and mine, I love both too 
well not to sacrifice to them my own hopes and 
wishes.” 

The Duke of Orleans threw himself on his knees, 
and kissed, — and, for once, with sincerity of attach- 
ment, — the hand which the King, with averted 
countenance, extended to him. In fact, he, as well 
as most present, saw, in the unwilling acquiescence 
of this accomplished dissembler, who, even with 
that very purpose, had suffered his reluctance to be 
visible, a King relinquishing his favourite project, 
and subjugating his paternal feelings to the neces- 
sities of state, and interest of his country. Even 
Burgundy was moved, and Orleans’ heart smote 
him for the joy which he involuntarily felt on being 
freed from his engagement with the Princess Joan. 
If he had known how deeply the King was cursing 
him in his soul, and what thoughts of future re- 
venge he was agitating, it is probable his own deli- 
cacy on the occasion would not have been so much 
hurt. 

Charles next turned to the young Countess, and 
bluntly announced the proposed match to her, as 
a matter which neither admitted delay nor hesita- 
tion ; adding, at the same time, that it was but a 
too favourable consequence of her intractability on 
a former occasion. 

“My Lord Duke and Sovereign,” said Isabelle, 
summoning up all her courage, “ I observe your 
Grace’s commands, and submit to them.” 

“Enough, enough,” said the Duke, interrupting 
her, “ we will arrange the rest. — Your Majesty 


QUENTIN DUll WARD. 


307 


he continued, addressing King Louis, “ hath had 
a boar’s hunt in the morning, what say you to 
rousing a wolf in the afternoon ? ” 

The young Countess saw the necessity of deci- 
sion. — “Your Grace mistakes my meaning,” she 
said, speaking, though timidly, yet loudly and de- 
cidedly enough to compel the Duke’s attention, 
which, from some consciousness, he would other- 
wise have willingly denied to her. — “ My submis- 
sion,” she said, “ only respected those lands and 
estates which your Grace’s ancestors gave to mine, 
and which I resign to the House of Burgundy, if 
my Sovereign thinks my disobedience in this mat- 
ter renders me unworthy to hold them.” 

“Ha! Saint George!” said the Duke, stamping 
furiously on the ground, “does the fool know in 
what presence she is — And to whom she speaks ? ” 

“ My lord,” she replied, still undismayed, “ I am 
before my Suzerain, and, I trust, a just one. If 
you deprive me of my lands, you take away all 
that your ancestors’ generosity gave, and you break 
the only bonds which attach us together. You gave 
not this poor and persecuted form, still less the 
spirit which animates me — And these it is my pur- 
pose to dedicate to Heaven in the convent of the 
Ursulines, under the guidance of this Holy Mother 
Abbess.” 

The rage and astonishment of the Duke can 
hardly be conceived, unless we could estimate the 
surprise of a falcon, against whom a dove should 
ruffle its pinions in defiance. — “ Will the Holy 
Mother receive you without an appanage ? ” he said, 
in a voice of scorn. 

“If she doth her convent, in the first instance, 
so much wrong,” said the Lady Isabelle, “ I trust 


3°8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


there is charity enough among the noble friends of 
my house, to make up some support for the orphan 
of Croye.” 

“ It is false ! ” said the Duke ; “ it is a base pre- 
text to cover some secret and unworthy passion. — 
My Lord of Orleans, she shall be yours, if I drag 
her to the altar with my own hands ! ” 

The Countess of Crbvecoeur, a high-spirited wo- 
man, and confident in her husband’s merits and 
his favour with the Duke, could keep silent no 
longer. — “My lord,” she said, “your passions 
transport you into language utterly unworthy — 
The hand of no gentlewoman can be disposed of 
by force.” 

“And it is no part of the duty of a Christian 
Prince,” added the Abbess, “ to thwart the wishes 
of a pious soul, who, broken with the cares and 
persecutions of the world, is desirous to become the 
bride of Heaven.” 

“ Neither can my cousin of Orleans,” said Dunois, 
“ with honour accept a proposal, to which the lady 
has thus publicly stated her objections.” 

“If I were permitted,” said Orleans, on whose 
facile mind Isabelle’s beauty had made a deep im- 
pression, “ some time to endeavour to place my 
pretensions before the Countess in a more favour- 
able light ” 

“ My lord,” said Isabelle, whose firmness was 
now fully supported by the encouragement which 
she received from all around, “ it were to no pur- 
pose — my mind is made up to decline this alliance, 
though far above my deserts.” 

“ Nor have I time,” said the Duke, “ to wait till 
these whimsies are changed with the next change 
of the moon. — Monseigneur d’Orleans, she shall 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


309 


learn within this hour, that obedience becomes 
matter of necessity.” 

“ Not in my behalf, Sire,” answered the Prince, 
who felt that he could not, with any show of hon- 
our, avail himself of the Duke’s obstinate dispo- 
sition ; — “to have been once openly and positively 
refused, is enough for a Son of France. He cannot 
prosecute his addresses farther.” 

The Duke darted one furious glance at Orleans, 
another at Louis ; and reading in the countenance 
of the latter, in spite of his utmost efforts to sup- 
press his feelings, a look of secret triumph, he be- 
came outrageous. 

“ Write,” he said to the Secretary, “ our doom 
of forfeiture and imprisonment against this diso- 
bedient and insolent minion ! She shall to the Zucht- 
haus, to the penitentiary, to herd with those whose 
lives have rendered them her rivals in effrontery ! ” 

There was a general murmur. 

“ My Lord Duke,” said the Count of Crkvecoeur, 
taking the word for the rest, “ this must be better 
thought on. We, your faithful vassals, cannot suf- 
fer such a dishonour to the nobility and chivalry 
of Burgundy. If the Countess hath done amiss, let 
her be punished — but in the manner that becomes 
her rank, and ours, who stand connected with her 
house by blood and alliance.” 

The Duke paused a moment, and looked full at 
his counsellor with the stare of a bull, which, when 
compelled by the neat-herd from the road which 
he wishes to go, deliberates with himself whether 
to obey, or to rush on his driver, and toss him into 
the air. 

Prudence, however, prevailed over fury — he saw 
the sentiment was general in his council — was 


3 io QUENTIN DURWARB. 

afraid of the advantages which Louis might derive 
from seeing dissension among his vassals ; and pro- 
bably — for he was rather of a coarse and violent, 
than of a malignant temper — felt ashamed of his 
own dishonourable proposal. 

“ You are right,” he said, “ Crkvecoeur, and I 
spoke hastily. Her fate shall be determined ac- 
cording to the rules of chivalry. Her flight to Liege 
hath given the signal for the Bishop’s murder. He 
that best avenges that deed, and brings us the head 
of the Wild Boar of Ardennes, shall claim her hand 
of us ; and if she denies his right, we can at least 
grant him her fiefs, leaving it to his generosity to 
allow her what means he will to retire into a convent.” 

“Nay!” said the Countess, “think I am the 
daughter of Count Reinold — of your father’s old, 
valiant, and faithful servant. Would you hold me 
out as a prize to the best sword -player ?” 

“ Your ancestress,” said the Duke, “-was won 
at a tourney — you shall be fought for in real melee. 
Only thus far, for Count Reinold’s sake, the suc- 
cessful prizer shall be a gentleman, of unimpeached 
birth, and unstained bearings ; but, be he such, and 
the poorest who ever drew the strap of a sword- 
belt through the tongue of a buckle, he shall have 
at least the proffer of your hand. I swear it, by 
St. George, by my ducal crown, and by the Order 
that I wear ! — Ha ! Messires,” he added, turning 
to the nobles present, “this at least is, I think, in 
conformity with the rules of chivalry ? ” 

Isabelle’s remonstrances were drowned in a gen- 
eral and jubilant assent, above which was heard 
the voice of old Lord Crawford, regretting the 
weight of years that prevented his striking for so 
fair a prize. The Duke was gratified by the general 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3 1 1 

applause, and his temper began to flow more smoothly, 
like that of a swollen river when it hath subsided 
within its natural boundaries. 

“ Are we, to whom fate has given dames already,” 
said Crkvecoeur, “ to be bystanders at this fair game ? 
It does not consist with my honour to be so, for I 
have myself a vow to be paid at the expense of that 
tusked and bristled brute, De la Marck.” 

“ Strike boldly in, Crbvecoeur,” said the Duke ; 
“ win her, and since thou canst not wear her thy- 
self, bestow her where thou wilt — on Count Ste- 
phen, your nephew, if you list.” 

“ Gramercy, my lord ! ” said Crkvecoeur, “ I will 
do my best in the battle ; and, should I be fortu- 
nate enough to be foremost, Stephen shall try his 
eloquence against that of the Lady Abbess.” 

“ I trust,” said Dunois, “ that the chivalry of 
France are not excluded from this fair contest ?” 

“ Heaven forbid ! brave Dunois,” answered the 
Duke, “ were it but for the sake of seeing you do 
your uttermost. But,” he added, “though there 
be no fault in the Lady Isabelle wedding a French- 
man, it will be necessary that the Count of Croye 
must become a subject of Burgundy.” 

“ Enough, enough,” said Dunois, “ my bar sin- 
ister may never be surmounted by the coronet of 
Croye — I will live and die French. But yet, 
though I should lose the lands, I will strike a blow 
for the lady.” 

Le Balafrd dared not speak aloud in such a 
presence, but he muttered to himself — 

“ Now, Saunders Souplejaw, hold thine own ! — 
thou always saidst the fortune of our house was 
to be won by marriage, and never had you such a 
chance to keep your word with us.” 


312 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“ No one thinks of me,” said Le Glorieux, “who 
am sure to carry off the prize from all of you.” 

“ Right, my sapient friend,” said Louis ; “ when a 
woman is in the case, the greatest fool is ever the 
first in favour.” 

While the princes and their nobles thus jested 
over her fate, the Abbess and the Countess of Cr&ve- 
coeur endeavoured in vain to console Isabelle, who 
had withdrawn with them from the council-presence. 
The former assured her, that the Holy Virgin would 
frown on every attempt to withdraw a true votaress 
from the shrine of Saint Ursula ; while the Coun- 
tess of Crkvecoeur whispered more temporal consola- 
tion, that no true knight, who might succeed in the 
emprize proposed, would avail himself, against her 
inclinations, of the Duke’s award ; and that per- 
haps the successful competitor might prove one who 
should find such favour in her eyes as to reconcile 
her to obedience. Love, like despair, catches at 
straws ; and, faint and vague as was the hope which 
this insinuation conveyed, the tears of the Coun- 
tess Isabelle flowed more placidly while she dwelt 
upon it . 1 

r The perilling the hand of an heiress upon the event of a battle, 
was not so likely to take place in the fourteenth century as when 
the laws of chivalry were in more general observance. Yet it was 
not unlikely to occur to so absolute a Prince as Duke Charles, in 
circumstances like those supposed. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE SALLY. 

The wretch condemn’d with life to part, 

Still still on hope relies, 

And every pang that rends the heart 
Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper’s light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 

And still the darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

Goldsmith. 

Few days had passed ere Louis had received, with 
a smile of gratified vengeance, the intelligence, 
that his favourite and his counsellor, the Cardinal 
Balue, was groaning within a cage of iron, so dis- 
posed as scarce to permit him to enjoy repose in 
any posture except when recumbent ; and of which, 
he it said in passing, he remained the unpitied 
tenant for nearly twelve years. The auxiliary 
forces which the Duke had required Louis to bring 
up had also appeared ; and he comforted himself 
that their numbers were sufficient to protect his 
person against violence, although too limited to 
cope, had such been his purpose, with the large army 
of Burgundy. He saw himself also at liberty, when 
time should suit, to resume his project of marriage 
between his daughter and the Duke of Orleans ; 
and, although he was sensible to the indignity of 
serving with his noblest peers under the banners of 


3H 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


his own vassal, and against the people whose cause 
he had abetted, he did not allow these circumstances 
to embarrass him in the meantime, trusting that a 
future day would bring him amends. — “For 
chance,” said he to his trusty Oliver, “ may indeed 
gain one hit, but it is patience and wisdom which 
win the game at last ” 

With such sentiments, upon a beautiful day in 
the latter end of harvest, the King mounted his 
horse ; and, indifferent that he was looked upon 
rather as a part of the pageant of a victor, than in 
the light of an independent Sovereign surrounded 
by his guards and his chivalry, King Louis sallied 
from under the Gothic gateway of Peronne, to join 
the Burgundian army, which commenced at the 
same time its march against Liege. 

Most of the ladies of distinction who were in the 
place, attended, dressed in their best array, upon 
the battlements and defences of the gate, to see 
the gallant show of the warriors setting forth on the 
expedition. Thither had the Countess Cr&vecoeur 
brought the Countess Isabelle. The latter attended 
very reluctantly ; but the peremptory order of 
Charles had been, that she who was to bestow the 
palm in the tourney, should be visible to the knights 
who were about to enter the lists. 

As they thronged out from under the arch, many 
a pennon and shield was to be seen, graced with 
fresh devices, expressive of the bearer’s devoted 
resolution to become a competitor for a prize so 
fair. Here a charger was painted starting for the 
goal, — there an arrow aimed at a mark, — one 
knight bore a bleeding heart, indicative of his pas- 
sion, — another a skull, and a coronet of laurels, 
showing his determination to win or die. Many 


QUENTIN DURWAIID. 


3 T 5 


others there were ; and some so cunningly intricate 
and obscure, that they might have defied the most 
ingenious interpreter. Each knight, too, it may 
be presumed, put his courser to his mettle, and 
assumed his most gallant seat in the saddle, as he 
passed for a moment under the view of the fair 
bevy of dames and damsels, who encouraged their 
valour by their smiles, and the waving of kerchiefs 
and of veils. The Archer-guard, selected almost 
at will from the flower of the Scottish nation, drew 
general applause, from the gallantry and splendour 
of their appearance. 

And there was one among these strangers, who 
ventured on a demonstration of acquaintance with 
the Lady Isabelle, which had not been attempted 
even by the most noble of the French nobility. 
It was Quentin Durward, who, as he passed the 
ladies in his rank, presented to the Countess of 
Croye, on the point of his lance, the letter of her 
aunt. 

“ Now, by my honour,” said the Count of Crkve- 
coeur, “ that is over insolent in an unworthy 
adventurer ! ” 

“ Do not call him so, Crevecceur,” said Dunois ; 
“ I have good reason to bear testimony to his gal- 
lantry — and in behalf of that lady, too.” 

“You make words of nothing,” said Isabelle, 
blushing with shame, and partly with resentment ; 
“ it is a letter from my unfortunate aunt — She 
writes cheerfully, though her situation must be 
dreadful.” 

“ Let us hear, let us hear what says the Boar’s 
bride,” said Crkvecoeur. 

The Countess Isabelle read the letter, in which 
her aunt seemed determined to make the best of a 


3*6 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


bad bargain, and to console herself for the haste 
and indecorum of her nuptials, by the happiness of 
being wedded to one of the bravest men of the age, 
who had iust acquired a princedom by .his valour. 
She implored her niece not to judge of her William 
(as she called him) by the report of others, but to 
wait till she knew him personally. He had his 
faults, perhaps, but they were such as belonged to 
characters whom she had ever venerated. William 
was rather addicted to wine, but so was the gallant 
Sir Godfrey, her grandsire ; — he was something 
hasty and sanguinary in his temper, such had been 
her brother, Reinold of blessed memory ; — he was 
blunt in speech, few Germans were otherwise ; and 
a little wilful and peremptory, but she believed all 
men loved to rule. More there was to the same 
purpose ; and the whole concluded with the hope 
and request, that Isabelle would, by means of the 
bearer, endeavour her escape from the tyrant of 
Burgundy, and come to her loving kinswoman’s 
Court of Liege, where any little differences concern- 
ing their mutual rights of succession to the Earldom 
might be adjusted by Isabelle’s marrying Earl 
Eberson — a bridegroom younger indeed than his 
bride, but that, as she (the Lady Hameline) might 
perhaps say from experience, was an inequality more 
easy to be endured than Isabelle could be aware of . 1 

Here the Countess Isabelle stopped ; the Abbess 
observing, with a prim aspect, that she had read 
quite enough concerning such worldly vanities, and 
the Count of Cr&vecoeur breaking out, “ Aroint thee, 

1 It is almost unnecessary to add, that the marriage of William 
de la March with the Lady Hameline, is as apocryphal as the lady 
herself. The real bride of the Wild Boar of Ardennes was Joan 
D’Arschel, Baroness of Scoonhoven. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3i7 


deceitful witch ! — Why, this device smells rank 
as the toasted cheese in a rat-trap — Now fie, and 
double fie, upon the old decoy-duck ! ” 

The Countess of Crkvecceur gravely rebuked her 
husband for his violence — “ The Lady Hameline,” 
she said, “ must have been deceived by De la Marck 
with a show of courtesy.” 

“He show courtesy!” said the Count — “I ac- 
quit him of all such dissimulation. You may as 
well expect courtesy from a literal wild boar — you 
may as well try to lay leaf-gold on old rusty gibbet- 
irons. No — idiot as she is, she is not quite goose 
enough to fall in love with the fox who has snapped 
her, and that in his very den. But you women are 
all alike — fair words carry it — and, I dare say, 
here is my pretty cousin impatient to join her aunt 
in this fool’s paradise, and marry the Boar-Pig.” 

“ So far from being capable of such folly,” said 
Isabelle, “ I am doubly desirous of vengeance on the 
murderers of the excellent Bishop, because it will, 
at the same time, free my aunt from the villain’s 
power.” 

“ Ah ! there indeed spoke the voice of Croye ! ” 
exclaimed the Count ; and no more was said con- 
cerning the letter. 

But while Isabelle read her aunt’s epistle to her 
friends, it must be observed that she did not think 
it necessary to recite a certain 'postscript , in which 
the Countess Hameline, lady-like, gave an account 
of her occupations, and informed her niece, that she 
had laid aside for the present a surcoat which she 
was working for her husband, bearing the arms of 
Croye and La Marck in conjugal fashion, parted 
per pale, because her William had determined, for 
purposes of policy, in the first action to have others 


3*8 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


dressed in his coat-armour, and himself to assume 
the arms of Orleans, with a bar sinister — in other 
words, those of Dunois. There was also a slip of 
paper in another hand, the contents of which the 
Countess did not think it necessary to mention, 
being simply these words — “ If you hear not of me 
soon, and that by the trumpet of Fame, conclude 
me dead, but not unworthy.” 

A thought, hitherto repelled as wildly incredible, 
now glanced with double keenness through Isabelle’s 
soul. As female wit seldom fails in the contrivance 
of means, she so ordered it, that ere the troops were 
fully on march, Quentin Durward received from an 
unknown hand the billet of Lady Hameline, marked 
with three crosses opposite to the postscript, and 
having these words subjoined : — “ He who feared 
not the arms of Orleans when on the breast of their 
gallant owner, cannot dread them when displayed 
on that of a tyrant and murderer.” A thousand 
thousand times was this intimation kissed and 
pressed to the bosom of the young Scot ! for it mar- 
shalled him on the path where both Honour and 
Love held out the reward, and possessed him with 
a secret unknown to others, by which to distinguish 
him whose death could alone give life to his hopes, 
and which he prudently resolved to lock up in his 
own bosom. 

But Durward saw the necessity of acting other- 
wise respecting the information communicated by 
Hayraddin, since the proposed sally of De la Marck, 
unless heedfully guarded against, might prove the 
destruction of the besieging army; so difficult was 
it, in the tumultuous warfare of those days, to re- 
cover from a nocturnal surprise. After pondering 
on the matter, lie formed the additional resolution. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


3i9 


that he would not communicate the intelligence save 
personally, and to both the Princes while together ; 
perhaps, because he felt that to mention so well- 
contrived and hopeful a scheme to Louis whilst in 
private, might be too strong a temptation to the 
wavering probity of that Monarch, and lead him to 
assist, rather than repel the intended sally. He 
determined, therefore, to watch for an opportunity 
of revealing the secret whilst Louis and Charles 
were met, which, as they were not particularly fond 
of the constraint imposed by each other’s society, 
was not likely soon to occur. 

Meanwhile the march continued, and the confed- 
erates soon entered the territories of Liege. Here 
the Burgundian soldiers, at least a part of them, 
composed of those bands who had acquired the title 
of Ecorcheurs, or flayers, showed by the usage 
which they gave the inhabitants, under pretext of 
avenging the Bishop’s death, that they well deserved 
that honourable title ; while their conduct greatly 
prejudiced the cause of Charles, the aggrieved in- 
habitants, who might otherwise have been passive 
in the quarrel, assuming arms in self-defence, harass- 
ing his march, by cutting off small parties, and fall- 
ing back before the main body upon the city itself, 
thus augmenting the numbers and desperation of 
those who had resolved to defend it. The French, 
few in number, and those the choice soldiers of the 
country, kept, according to the King’s orders, close 
by their respective standards, and observed the 
strictest discipline ; a contrast which increased the 
suspicions of Charles, who could not help remarking 
that the troops of Louis demeaned themselves as if 
they were rather friends to the Liegeois, than allies 
of Burgundy. 


320 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


At length, without experiencing any serious op- 
position, the army arrived in the rich valley of the 
Maes, and before the large and populous city of 
Liege. The Castle of Schonwaldt they found had 
been totally destroyed, and learned that William 
de la Marek, whose only talents were of a military 
cast, had withdrawn his whole forces into the city, 
and was determined to avoid the encounter of the 
chivalry of France and Burgundy in the open field. 
But the invaders were not long of experiencing the 
danger which must always exist in attacking a large 
town, however open, if the inhabitants are disposed 
to defend it desperately. 

A part of the Burgundian vanguard, conceiving 
that, from the dismantled and breached state of the 
walls, they had nothing to do but to march into 
Liege at their ease, entered one of the suburbs with 
the shouts of “ Burgundy, Burgundy ! Kill, kill 
— all is ours — Remember Louis of Bourbon ! ” But 
as they marched in disorder through the narrow 
streets, and were partly dispersed for the purpose 
of pillage, a large body of the inhabitants issued 
suddenly from the town, fell furiously upon them, 
and made considerable slaughter. De la Marck even 
availed himself of the breaches in the walls, which 
permitted the defenders to issue out at different 
points, and, by taking separate routes into the con- 
tested suburb, to attack, in the front, flank, and rear, 
at once, the assailants, who, stunned by the furious, 
unexpected, and multiplied nature of the resistance 
offered, could hardly stand to their arms. The even- 
ing, which began to close, added to their confusion. 

When this news was brought to Duke Charles, 
he was furious with rage, which was not much 
appeased by the offer of King Louis, to send the 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


321 


French men-at-arms into the suburbs, to rescue and 
bring off the Burgundian vanguard. Rejecting 
this offer briefly, he would have put himself at the 
head of his own Guards, to extricate those engaged 
in the incautious advance ; but D’Hymbercourt and 
Cr&vecoeur entreated him to leave the service to 
them, and, marching into the scene of action at two 
points, with more order and proper arrangement 
for mutual support, these two celebrated captains 
succeeded in repulsing the Liegeois, and in extri- 
cating the vanguard, who lost, besides prisoners, 
no fewer than eight hundred men, of whom about 
a hundred were men-at-arms. The prisoners, how- 
ever, were not numerous, most of them having been 
rescued by D’Hymbercourt, who now proceeded to 
occupy the contested suburb, and to place guards 
opposite to the town, from which it was divided by 
an open space, or esplanade, of five or six hundred 
yards, left free of buildings for the purposes of 
defence. There was no moat betwixt the suburb 
and town, the ground being rocky in that place. A 
gate fronted the suburb, from which sallies might 
be easily made, and the wall was pierced by two or 
three of those breaches which Duke Charles had 
caused to be made after the battle of Saint Tron, 
and which had been hastily repaired with mere bar- 
ricades of timber. D’Hymbercourt turned two cul- 
verins on the gate, and placed two others opposite 
to the principal breach, to repel any sally from the 
city, and then returned to the Burgundian army, 
which he found in great disorder. 

In fact, the main body and rear of the numerous 
army of the Duke had continued to advance, while 
the broken and repulsed vanguard was in the act of 
retreating; and they had come into collision with 


322 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


each other, to the great confusion of both. The nec- 
essary absence of D’Hymbercourt, who discharged 
all the duties of Mardchal du Camp, or, as we should 
now say, of Quarter-master-general, augmented the 
disorder; and to complete the whole, the night 
sunk down dark as a wolf’s mouth : there fell a 
thick and heavy rain, and the ground, on which the 
beleaguering army must needs take up their posi- 
tion, was muddy, and intersected with many canals. 
It is scarce possible to form an idea of the confu- 
sion which prevailed in the Burgundian army, 
where leaders were separated from their soldiers, 
and soldiers from their standards and officers. Every 
one, from the highest to the lowest, was seeking 
shelter and accommodation where he could indi- 
vidually find it; while the wearied and wounded, 
who had been engaged in the battle, were calling 
in vain for shelter and refreshment ; and while those 
who knew nothing of the disaster, were pressing 
on to have their share in the sack of the place, which 
they had no doubt was proceeding merrily. 

When D’Hymbercourt returned, he had a task to 
perform of incredible difficulty, and embittered by 
the reproaches of his master, who made no allow- 
ance for the still more necessary duty in which he 
had been engaged, until the temper of the gallant 
soldier began to give way under the Duke’s unrea- 
sonable reproaches. — “I went hence to restore some 
order in the van,” he said, “ and left the main body 
under your Grace’s own guidance ; and now, on my 
return, I can neither find that we have front, -flank, 
nor rear, so utter is the confusion.” 

“ We are the more like a barrel of herrings,” 
answered Le Glorieux, “ which is the most natural 
resemblance for a Flemish army.” 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


323 


The jester’s speech made the Duke laugh, and 
perhaps prevented a farther prosecution of the 
altercation betwixt him and his general. 

By dint of great exertion, a small lust-haus, or 
country villa of some wealthy citizen of Liege, was 
secured and cleared of other occupants, for the ac- 
commodation of the Duke and his immediate attend- 
ants ; and the authority of D’Hymbercourt and 
Crhvecceur at length established a guard in the 
vicinity, of about forty men-at-arms, who lighted a 
very large fire, made with the timber of the out- 
houses, which they pulled down for the purpose. 

A little to the left of this villa, and betwixt it 
&nd the suburb, which, as we have said, was 
opposite to the city-gate, and occupied by the 
Burgundian vanguard, lay another pleasure-house, 
surrounded by a garden and court-yard, and having 
two or three small enclosures or fields in the rear 
of it. In this the King of France established his 
own head-quarters. He did not himself pretend 
to be a soldier, further than a natural indifference 
to danger and much sagacity qualified him to be 
called such ; but he was always careful to employ 
the most skilful in that profession, and reposed in 
them the confidence they merited. Louis and his 
immediate attendants occupied this second villa; 
a part of his Scottish Guard were placed in the 
court, where there were outhouses and sheds to 
shelter them from the weather ; the rest were 
stationed in the garden. The remainder of the 
French men-at-arms were quartered closely together 
and in good order, with alarm-posts stationed, in 
case of their having to sustain an attack. 

Dunois and Crawford, assisted by several old 
officers and soldiers, amongst whom Le Balafrfi was 


324 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


conspicuous for his diligence, contrived, by break- 
ing down walls, making openings through hedges, 
filling up ditches, and the like, to facilitate the 
communication of the troops with each other, and 
the orderly combination of the whole in case of 
necessity. 

Meanwhile, the King judged it proper to go 
without farther ceremony to the quarters of the 
Duke of Burgundy, to ascertain what was to be 
the order of proceeding, and what co-operation 
was expected from him. His presence occasioned 
a sort of council of war to be held, of which 
Charles might not otherwise have dreamed. 

It was then that Quentin Durward prayed ear- 
nestly to be admitted, as having something of 
importance to deliver to the two Princes. This 
was obtained without much difficulty, and great 
was the astonishment of Louis, when he heard him 
calmly and distinctly relate the purpose of William 
de la Marck, to make a sally upon the camp of 
the besiegers, under the dress and banners of the 
French. Louis would probably have been much 
better pleased to have had such important news com- 
municated in private ; but as the whole story had 
been publicly told in presence of the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, he only observed, “ that, whether true or false, 
such a report concerned them most materially.” 

“Not a whit! — not a whit!” said the Duke, 
carelessly. “Had there been such a purpose as 
this young man announces, it had not been com- 
municated to me by an Archer of the Scottish 
Guard.” 

“ However that may be,” answered Louis, “ I 
pray you, fair cousin, you and your captains, to 
attend, that to prevent the unpleasing consequences 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


325 


of such an attack, should it be made unexpectedly, 
I will cause my soldiers to wear white scarfs over 
their armour — Dunois, see it given out on the 
instant — that is,” he added, “ if our brother and 
general approves of it.’* 

“ I see no objection,” replied the Duke, “ if the 
chivalry of France are willing to run the risk of 
having the name of Knights of the Smock-sleeve 
bestowed on them in future.” 

“It would be a right well adapted title, friend 
Charles,” said Le Glorieux, “considering that a 
woman is the reward of the most valiant.” 

“Well spoken, Sagacity,” said Louis — “Cousin, 
good-night, I will go arm me. — By the way, what 
if I win the Countess with mine own hand ? ” 

“ Your Majesty,” said the Duke, in an altered 
tone of voice, “ must then become a true Fleming.” 

“ I cannot,” answered Louis, in a tone of the 
most sincere confidence, “ be more so than I am 
already, could I but bring you, my dear cousin, to 
believe it.” 

The Duke only replied by wishing the King 
good-night, in a tone resembling the snort of a 
shy horse, starting from the caress of the rider 
when he is about to mount, and is soothing him 
to stand still. 

“ I could pardon all his duplicity,” said the Duke 
to Crkvecoeur, “ but cannot forgive his supposing 
me capable of the gross folly of being duped by his 
professions.” 

Louis, too, had his confidences with Oliver le 
Dain when he returned to his own quarters. — 
“ This Scot,” he said, “ is such a mixture of shrewd- 
ness and simplicity, that I know not what to make 
of him. Pasques-dieu ! think of his unpardonable 


326 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


folly in bringing out honest De la Marck’s plan 
of a sally before the face of Burgundy, Crfcvecceur, 
and all of them, instead of rounding it in my ear, 
and giving me at least the choice of abetting or 
defeating it ! ” 

“ It is better as it is, Sire,” said Oliver ; “ there 
are many in your present train who would scruple 
to assail Burgundy undefied, or to ally themselves 
with De la Marck.” 

“ Thou art right, Oliver. Such fools there are in 
the world, and we have no time to reconcile their 
scruples by a little dose of self-interest. We must 
be true men, Oliver, and good allies of Burgundy, 
for this night at least, — time may give us a chance 
of a better game. Go, tell no man to unarm him- 
self; and let them shoot, in case of necessity, as 
sharply on those who cry France and St. Dennis ! 
as if they cried Hell and Satan ! I will myself sleep 
in my armour. Let Crawford place Quentin Dur- 
ward on the extreme point of our line of sentinels, 
next to the city. Let him e’en have the first bene- 
fit of the sally which he has announced to us — if 
his luck bear him out, it is the better for him. But 
take an especial care of Martius Galeotti, and see 
he remain in the rear, in a place of the most ab- 
solute safety — he is even but too venturous ; and, 
like a fool, would be both swordsman and philoso- 
pher. See to these things, Oliver, and good-night — 
Our Lady of Clery, and Monseigneur Saint Martin 
of Tours, be gracious to my slumbers ! ” 1 


1 Note X. — Attack upon Liege. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE SALLY. 

He look’d, and saw what numbers numberless 
The city-gates out-pour’d. 

Paradise Regained. 


A dead silence soon reigned over that great host 
which lay in leaguer before Liege. For a long time 
the cries of the soldiers repeating their signals, and 
seeking to join their several banners, sounded like 
the howling of bewildered dogs seeking their mas- 
ters. But at length overcome with weariness by the 
fatigues of the day, the dispersed soldiers crowded 
under such shelter as they could meet with, and 
those who could find none, sunk down through very 
fatigue, under walls, hedges, and such temporary 
protection, there to wait for morning, — a morning 
which some of them were never to behold. A dead 
sleep fell on almost all, excepting those who kept a 
faint and weary watch by the lodgings of the King 
and the Duke. The dangers and hopes of the mor- 
row — even the schemes of glory which many of the 
young nobility had founded upon the splendid prize 
held out to him who should avenge the murdered 
Bishop of Liege — glided from their recollection as 
they lay stupified with fatigue and sleep. But not 
so with Quentin Durward. The knowledge that he 
alone was possessed of the means of distinguishing 
La Marck in the contest — the recollection by whom 


328 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


that information had been communicated, and the 
fair augury which might be drawn from her con' 
veying it to him — the thought that his fortune had 
brought him to a most perilous and doubtful crisis 
indeed, but one where there was still, at least, a 
chance of his coming off triumphant, banished every 
desire to sleep, and strung his nerves with vigour, 
which defied fatigue. 

Posted, by the King’s express order, on the ex- 
treme point between the French quarters and the 
town, a good way to the right of the suburb which 
we have mentioned, he sharpened his eye to pene- 
trate the mass which lay before him, and excited 
his ears, to catch the slightest sound which might 
announce any commotion in the beleaguered city. 
But its huge clocks had successively knelled three 
hours after midnight, and all continued still and 
silent as the grave. 

At length, and just when Quentin began to think 
the attack would be deferred till daybreak, and joy- 
fully recollected that there would be then light 
enough to descry the Bar Sinister across the Fleur- 
de-lis of Orleans, he thought he heard in the city 
a humming murmur, like that of disturbed bees 
mustering for the defence of their hives. He 
listened — the noise continued ; but it was of a 
character so undistinguished by any peculiar or 
precise sound, that it might be the murmur of a 
wind rising among the boughs of a distant grove, or 
perhaps some stream swollen by the late rain, whicli 
was discharging itself into the sluggish Maes with 
more than usual clamour. Quentin was prevented 
by these considerations from instantly giving the 
alarm, which, if done carelessly, would have been a 
heavy offence. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 329 

But when the noise rose louder, and seemed pour- 
ing at the same time towards his own post, and 
towards the suburb, he deemed it his duty to fall 
back as silently as possible, and call his uncle, who 
commanded the small body of Archers destined to 
his support. All were on their feet in a moment, 
and with as little noise as possible. In less than a 
second. Lord Crawford was at their head, and, dis- 
patching an archer to alarm the King and his 
household, drew back his little party to some dis- 
tance behind their watchfire, that they might not 
be seen by its light. The rushing sound, which had 
approached them more nearly, seemed suddenly to 
have ceased ; but they still heard distinctly the 
more distant heavy tread of a large body of men 
approaching the suburb. 

“ The lazy Burgundians are asleep on their post,” 
whispered Crawford; M make for the suburb, Cun- 
ningham, and awaken the stupid oxen.” 

“Keep well to the rear as you go,” said Dur- 
ward ; “ if ever I heard the tread of mortal men, 
there is a strong body interposed between us and 
the suburb.” 

“Well said, Quentin, my dainty callant,” said 
Crawford ; “ thou art a soldier beyond thy years. 
They only make halt till the others come forward. 
— I would I had some knowledge where they are ! ” 

“I will creep forward, my lord,” said Quentin, 
“ and endeavour to bring you information.” 

“ Do so, my bonny chield ; thou hast sharp ears 
and eyes, and good-will — but take heed — I would 
not lose thee for two and a plack .” 1 

Quentin, with his harquebuss ready prepared, stole 
forward, through ground which he had reconnoitred 
1 An homely Scottish expression for something you value. 


330 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


carefully in the twilight of the preceding evening, 
until he was not only certain that he was in the 
neighbourhood of a very large body of men, who 
were standing fast betwixt the King’s quarters and 
the suburbs, but also that there was a detached 
party of smaller number in advance, and very close 
to him. They seemed to whisper together, as if un- 
certain what to do next. At last, the steps of 
two or three Unfans perdus, detached from that 
smaller party, approached him so near as twice 
a pike’s length. Seeing it impossible to retreat un- 
discovered, Quentin called out aloud, “ Qui vive ? ” 
and was answered by “ Vive Li — Li — ege — c’est-d 
dire,” (added he who spoke, correcting himself,) 
“ Vive la France ! ” — Quentin instantly fired his 
harquebuss — a man groaned and fell, and he him- 
self, under the instant but vague discharge of a 
number of pieces, the fire of which ran in a disor- 
derly manner alongst the column, and showed it to 
be very numerous, hastened back to the main guard. 

“ Admirably done, my brave boy ! ” said Craw- 
ford. — “Now, callants, draw in within the court- 
yard — they are too many to mell with in the open 
field.” 

They drew within the court-yard and garden 
accordingly, where they found all in great order, 
and the King prepared to mount his horse. 

“ Whither away, Sire ? ” said Crawford ; “ you 
are safest here with your own people.” 

“ Not so,” said Louis ; “ I must instantly to the 
Duke. He must be convinced of our good faith 
at this critical moment, or we shall have both 
Liegeois and Burgundians upon us at once.” And 
springing on his horse, he bade Dunois command 
the French troops without the house, and Craw- 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


33i 


ford the Archer-guard and other household troops 
to defend the lust-haus and its enclosures. He 
commanded them to bring up two sakers, and as 
many falconets, (pieces of cannon for the field,) 
which had been left about half a mile in the rear ; 
and, in the meantime, to make good their posts, 
but by no means to advance, whatever success they 
might obtain ; and having given these orders, he 
rode off, with a small escort, to the Duke’s quarters. 

The delay which permitted these arrangements 
to be carried fully into effect, was owing to Quen- 
tin’s having fortunately shot the proprietor of the 
house, who acted as guide to the column which was 
designed to attack it, and whose attack, had it been 
made instantly, might have had a chance of being 
successful. 

Durward, who, by the King’s order, attended 
him to the Duke’s, found the latter in a state of 
choleric distemperature, which almost prevented 
his discharging the duties of a general, which were 
never more necessary ; for, besides the noise of a 
close and furious combat which had now taken 
place in the suburb upon the left of their whole 
army, — besides the attack upon the King’s quar- 
ters, which was fiercely maintained in the centre, 
— a third column of Liegeois, of even superior 
numbers, had filed out from a more distant breach, 
and, marching by lanes, vineyards, and passes, 
known to themselves, had fallen upon the right 
fiank of the Burgundian army, who, alarmed at 
their war-cries of Vive la France ! and Dennis Moni- 
joie! which mingled with those of Liege and Rouge 
Sanglier , and at the idea thus inspired, of treachery 
on the part of the French confederates, made a very 
desultory and imperfect resistance ; while the Duke, 


332 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


foaming, and swearing, and cursing his liege Lord 
and all that belonged to him, called out to shoot 
with bow and gun on all that was French, whether 
black or white, — alluding to the sleeves with which 
Louis’s soldiers had designated themselves. 

The arrival of the King, attended only by Le 
Balafrd and Quentin, and half a score of Archers, 
restored confidence between France and Burgundy. 
D’Hymbercourt, Crkvecoeur, and others of the Bur- 
gundian leaders, whose names were then the praise 
and dread of war, rushed devotedly into the con- 
flict; and, while some commanders hastened to 
bring up more distant troops, to whom the panic 
had not extended, others threw themselves into the 
tumult, re-animated the instinct of discipline, and 
while the Duke toiled in the front, shouting, hack- 
ing, and hewing, like an ordinary man-at-arms, 
brought their men by degrees into array, and dis- 
mayed the assailants by the use of their artillery. 
The conduct of Louis on the other hand, was that 
of a calm, collected, sagacious leader, who neither 
sought nor avoided danger, but showed so much 
self-possession and sagacity, that the Burgundian 
leaders readily obeyed the orders which he issued. 

The scene was now become in the utmost degree 
animated and horrible. On the left the suburb, 
after a fierce contest, had been set on fire, and a 
wide and dreadful conflagration did not prevent the 
burning ruins from being still disputed. On the 
centre, the French troops, though pressed by im- 
mense odds, kept up so close and constant a fire, 
that the little pleasure-house shone bright with the 
glancing flashes, as if surrounded with a martyr’s 
crown of flames. On the left, the battle swayed 
backwards and forwards with varied success, as fresh 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


333 


reinforcements poured out of the town, or were 
brought forward from the rear of the Burgundian 
host; and the strife continued with unremitting 
fury for three mortal hours, which at length brought 
the dawn, so much desired by the besiegers. The 
enemy, at this period, seemed to be slackening 
their efforts upon the right and in the centre, and 
several discharges of cannon were heard from the 
lust-haus. 

“ Go,” said the King, to Le Balafr^ and Quentin, 
the instant his ear had caught the sound ; “ they 
have got up the sakers and falconets — the pleasure- 
house is safe, blessed be the Holy Virgin! — Tell 
Dunois to move this way, but rather nearer the 
walls of Liege, with all our men-at-arms, excepting 
what he may leave for the defence of the house, and 
cut in between those thick-headed Liegeois on the 
right and the city, from which they are supplied 
with recruits.” 

The uncle and nephew galloped off to Dunois 
and Crawford, who, tired of their defensive war, 
joyfully obeyed the summons, and, filing out at the 
head of a gallant body of about two hundred French 
gentlemen, besides squires, and the greater part of 
the Archers and their followers, marched across the 
field, trampling down the wounded, till they gained 
the flank of the large body of Liegeois, by whom 
the right of the Burgundians had been so fiercely 
assailed. The increasing daylight discovered that 
the enemy were continuing to pour out from the 
city, either for the purpose of continuing the battle 
on that point, or of bringing safely off the forces 
who were already engaged. 

“ By Heaven ! ” said old Crawford to Dunois, 
“were I not certain it is thou that art riding by 


334 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 

my side, I would say I saw thee among yonder ban- 
ditti and burghers, marshalling and arraying them 
with thy mace — only, if yon be thou, thou art 
bigger than thou art wont to be. Art thou sure 
yonder armed leader is not thy wraith, thy double- 
man, as these Flemings call it ? ” 

“ My wraith ! ” said Dunois ; “ I know not what 
you mean. But yonder is a caitiff with my bearings 
displayed on crest and shield, whom I will presently 
punish for his insolence.” 

“ In the name of all that is noble, my lord, leave 
the vengeance to me ! ” said Quentin. 

“ To thee indeed, young man ? ” said Dunois ; 
“that is a modest request. — No — these things 
brook no substitution.”— Then turning on his saddle, 
he called out to those around him, “ Gentlemen of 
France, form your line, level your lances ! Let the 
rising sunbeams shine through the battalions of 
yonder swine of Liege and hogs of Ardennes, that 
masquerade in our ancient coats.” 

The men-at-arms answered with a loud shout of 
“ A Dunois !a Dunois ! — Long live the bold Bas- 
tard ! — Orleans to the rescue ! ” — And, with their 
leader in the centre, they charged at full gallop. 
They encountered no timid enemy. The large body 
which they charged, consisted (excepting some 
mounted officers) entirely of infantry, who, setting 
the but of their lances against their feet, the front 
rank kneeling, the second stooping, and those 
behind presenting their spears over their heads, 
offering such resistance to the rapid charge of the 
men-at-arms as the hedge-hog presents to his 
enemy. Few were able to make way through that 
iron wall ; but of those few was Dunois, who, 
giving spur to his horse, and making the noble 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


335 


animal leap more than twelve feet at a bound, fairly 
broke his way into the middle of the phalanx, and 
made towards the object of his animosity. What 
was his surprise to find Quentin still by his side, 
and fighting in the same front with himself — youth, 
desperate courage, and the determination to do or die, 
having still kept the youth abreast with the best 
knight in Europe; for such was Dunois reported, 
and truly reported, at the period. 

Their spears were soon broken ; but the lanz- 
knechts were unable to withstand the blows of 
their long heavy swords ; while the horses and 
riders, armed in complete steel, sustained little in- 
jury from their lances. Still Dunois and Durward 
were contending with rival efforts to burst forward 
to the spot where he who had usurped the armo- 
rial bearings of Dunois was doing the duty of a 
good and valiant leader, when Dunois, observing 
the boar’s-head and tusks — the usual bearing of 
William de la Marck — in another part of the con- 
flict, called out to Quentin, “ Thou art worthy to 
avenge the arms of Orleans ! I leave thee the task. 
— Balafrd, support your nephew ; but let none dare 
to interfere with Dunois’ boar-hunt ! ” 

That Quentin Durward joyfully acquiesced in 
this division of labour cannot be doubted, and each 
pressed forward upon his separate object, followed, 
and defended from behind, by such men-at-arms as 
were able to keep up with them. 

But at this moment the column which De la 
Marck had proposed to support, when his own 
course was arrested by the charge of Dunois, had 
lost all the advantages they had gained during the 
night ; while the Burgundians, with returning day, 
had begun to show the qualities which belong to 


33 ^ 


QUENTIN DU1UVARD. 


superior discipline. The great mass of Liegeois 
were compelled to retreat, and at length to fly ; 
and, falling back on those who were engaged with 
the French men-at-arms, the whole became a con- 
fused tide of fighters, fliers, and pursuers, which 
rolled itself towards the city-walls, and at last was 
poured into the ample and undefended breach 
through which the Liegeois had sallied. 

Quentin made more than human exertions to over- 
take the special object of his pursuit, who was still 
in his sight, striving, by voice and example, to re- 
new the battle, and bravely supported by a chosen 
party of lanzknechts. Le Balafr^, and several of 
his comrades, attached themselves to Quentin, much 
marvelling at the extraordinary gallantry displayed 
by so young a soldier. On the very brink of the 
breach, De la Marck — for it was himself — suc- 
ceeded in effecting a momentary stand, and repell- 
ing some of the most forward of the pursuers. He 
had a mace of iron in his hand, before which every 
thing seemed to go down, and was so much covered 
with blood, that it was almost impossible to discern 
those bearings on his shield which had so much 
incensed Dunois. 

Quentin now found little difficulty in singling 
him out ; for the commanding situation of which 
he had possessed himself, and the use he made of 
his terrible mace, caused many of the assailants to 
seek safer points of attack than that where so des- 
perate a defender presented himself. But Quentin, 
to whom the importance attached to victory over 
this formidable antagonist was better known, sprung 
from his horse at the bottom of the breach, and, 
letting the noble animal, the gift of the Duke of 
Orleans, run loose through the tumult, ascended 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


337 


the ruins to measure swords with the Boar of Ar- 
dennes. The latter, as if he had seen his inten- 
tion, turned towards Durward with mace uplifted ; 
and they were on the point of encounter, when a 
dreadful shout of triumph, of tumult, and of de- 
spair, announced that the besiegers were entering 
the city at another point, and in the rear of those 
who defended the breach. Assembling around him, 
by voice and bugle, the desperate partners of his 
desperate fortune, De la Marck, at those appalling 
sounds, abandoned the breach, and endeavoured to 
effect his retreat towards a part of the city from 
which he might escape to the other side of the Maes. 
His immediate followers formed a deep body of 
w’ell-disciplined men, who, never having given quar- 
ter, were resolved now not to ask it, and who, in 
that hour of despair, threw themselves into such 
firm order, that their front occupied the whole 
breadth of the street, through which they slowly 
retired, making head from time to time, and check- 
ing the pursuers, many of whom began to seek a 
safer occupation, by breaking into the houses for 
plunder. It is therefore probable that De la Marck 
might have effected his escape, his disguise conceal- 
ing him from those who promised themselves to 
win honour and grandeur upon his head, but for the 
stanch pursuit of Quentin, his uncle Le Balafrd, 
and some of his comrades. At every pause which 
was made by the lanzknechts, a furious combat took 
place betwixt them and the Archers, and in every 
melee Quentin sought De la Marck ; but the latter, 
whose present object was to retreat, seemed to evade 
the young Scot’s purpose of bringing him to single 
combat. The confusion was general in every direc- 
tion. The shrieks and cries of women, the yelling 


338 


QUENTIN EUR WARD. 


of the terrified inhabitants, now subjected to the 
extremity of military license, sounded horribly 
shrill amid the shouts of battle, — like the voice of 
misery and despair contending with that of fury 
and violence, which should be heard farthest and 
loudest. 

It was just when De la Marck, retiring through 
this infernal scene, had passed the door of a small 
chapel of peculiar sanctity, that the shouts of 
“ France ! France ! — Burgundy ! Burgundy ! ” ap- 
prized him that a part of the besiegers were enter- 
ing the farther end of the street, which was a 
narrow one, and that his retreat was cut off. — 
“ Conrade,” he said, “ take all the men with you — 
Charge yonder fellows roundly, and break through 
if you can — with me it is over. I am man enough, 
now that I am brought to bay, to send some of 
these vagabond Scots to hell before me.” 

His lieutenant obeyed, and, with most of the few 
lanzknechts who remained alive, hurried to the far- 
ther end of the street, for the purpose of charging 
those Burgundians who were advancing, and so 
forcing their way, so as to escape. About six of 
De la March’s best men remained to perish with 
their master, and fronted the Archers, who were 
not many more in number. — “ Sanglier ! Sanglier ! 
Hola ! gentlemen of Scotland,” said the ruffian but 
undaunted chief, waving his mace, “ who longs to 
gain a coronet, — who strikes at the Boar of Ar- 
dennes ? — You, young man, have, methinks, a 
hankering ; but you must win ere you wear it.” 

Quentin heard but imperfectly the words, which 
were partly lost in the hollow helmet ; but the action 
could not be mistaken, and he had but time to bid 
his uncle and comrades, as they were gentlemen, 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


339 


to stand back, when De la Marck sprung upon him 
with a bound like a tiger, aiming at the same time 
a blow with his mace, so as to make his hand and 
foot keep time together, and giving his stroke full 
advantage of the descent of his leap ; but, light of 
foot and quick of eye, Quentin leaped aside, and 
disappointed an aim which would have been fatal 
had it taken effect. 

They then closed, like the wolf and the wolf-dog, 
their comrades on either side remaining inactive 
spectators, for Le Balafrd roared out for fair play, 
adding, “ that he would venture his nephew on him, 
were he as wight as Wallace.” 

Neither was the experienced soldier’s confidence 
unjustified ; for, although the blows of the despair- 
ing robber fell like those of the hammer on the 
anvil, yet the quick motions, and dexterous sword- 
manship of the young Archer, enabled him to 
escape, and to requite them with the point of his 
less noisy, though more fatal weapon ; and that so 
often and so effectually, that the huge strength of 
his antagonist began to give way to fatigue, while 
the ground on which he stood became a puddle of 
blood. Yet, still unabated in courage and ire, the 
wild Boar of Ardennes fought on with as much 
mental energy as at first, and Quentin’s victory 
seemed dubious and distant, when a female voice 
behind him called him by his name, ejaculating, 
“ Help ! help ! for the sake of the blessed Virgin !” 

He turned his head, and with a single glance 
beheld Gertrude Pavilion, her mantle stripped from 
her shoulders, dragged forcibly along by a French 
soldier; one of several, who, breaking into the 
chapel close by, had seized, as their prey, on the 
terrified females who had taken refuge there. 


340 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 

“ Wait for me but one moment,” exclaimed 
Quentin to De la Marck, and sprung to extricate 
his benefactress from a situation of which he con- 
jectured all the dangers. 

“I wait no man’s pleasure,” said De la Marck, 
flourishing his mace, and beginning to retreat — 
glad, no doubt, of being free of so formidable an 
assailant. 

“You shall wait mine, though, by your leave,” 
said Balafrd ; “I will not have my nephew baulked.” 
— So saying, he instantly assaulted De la Marck 
with his two-handed sword. 

Quentin found, in the meanwhile, that the rescue 
of Gertrude was a task more difficult than could be 
finished in one moment. Her captor, supported 
by his comrades, refused to relinquish his prize; 
and whilst Durward, aided by one or two of his 
countrymen, endeavoured to compel him to do so, 
the former beheld the chance which Fortune had 
so kindly afforded him for fortune and happiness; 
glide out of his reach ; so that when he stood at 
length in the street with the liberated Gertrude, 
there was no one near them. Totally forgetting 
the defenceless situation of his companion, he was 
about to spring away in pursuit of the Boar of 
Ardennes, as the greyhound tracks the deer, when, 
clinging to him in her despair, she exclaimed, 
“For the sake of your mother’s honour, leave me 
not here ! — As you are a gentleman, protect me 
to my father’s house, which once sheltered you 
and the Lady Isabelle! — For her sake leave me 
not!” 

Her call was agonizing, but it was irresistible 
and bidding a mental adieu, with unutterable bit- 
terness of feeling, to all the gay hopes which had 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


34i 


stimulated his exertion, carried him through that 
bloody day, and which at one moment seemed to 
approach consummation, Quentin, like an unwilling 
spirit, who obeys a talisman which he cannot resist, 
protected Gertrude to Pavilion’s house, and ar- 
rived in time to defend that and the Syndic himself 
against the fury of the licentious soldiery. 

Meantime, the King and the Duke of Burgundy 
entered the city on horseback, and through one of 
the breaches. They were both in complete armour, 
but the latter covered with blood from the plume 
to the spur, drove his steed furiously up the breach, 
which Louis surmounted with the stately pace of 
one who leads a procession. They dispatched orders 
to stop the sack of the city, which had already com- 
menced, and to assemble their scattered troops. 
The princes themselves proceeded towards the 
great . church, both for the protection of many 
of the distinguished inhabitants, who had taken re- 
fuge there, and in order to hold a sort of military 
council after they had heard High Mass. 

Busied like other officers of his rank in collecting 
those under his command, Lord Crawford, at the 
turning of one of the streets which leads to the Maes, 
met Le Balafrd sauntering composedly towards the 
river, holding in his hand, by the gory locks, a hu- 
man head, with as much indifference as a fowler 
carries a game-pouch. 

“How now, Ludovic!” said his commander; 
“ what are ye doing with that carrion ? ” 

“ It is all that is left of a bit of work which my 
nephew shaped out, and nearly finished, and I put 
the last hand to,” said Le Balafr£ — “a good fellow 
that I dispatched yonder, and who prayed me to 
throw his head into the Maes. — Men have queer 


342 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


fancies when old Small-Back 1 is gripping them; 
but Small-Back must lead down the dance with us 
all in our time.” 

“ And you are going to throw that head into the 
Maes ? ” said Crawford, looking more attentively on 
the ghastly memorial of mortality. 

“ Ay, truly am I,” said Ludovic Lesly. “ If you 
refuse a dying man his boon, you are likely to he 
haunted by his ghost, and I love to sleep sound at 
nights.” 

“ You must take your chance of the ghaist, man,” 
said Crawford ; “ for, by my soul, there is more 
lies on that dead pow than you think for. Come 
along with me — not a word more — Come along 
with me.” 

“ Nay, for that matter,” said Le Balafrd, “ I made 
him no promise ; for, in truth, I had off his head 
before the tongue had well done wagging ; and as I 
feared him not living, by Saint Martin of Tours, I 
fear him as little when he is dead. Besides, my 
little gossip, the merry Friar of St. Martin’s, will 
lend me a pot of holy water.” 

When High Mass had been said in the Cathe- 
dral Church of Liege, and the terrified town was 
restored to some moderate degree of order, Louis 
and Charles, with their peers around, proceeded 
to hear the claims of those who had any to make 
for services performed during the battle. Those 
which respected the County of Croye and its fair 
mistress were first received, and, to the disappoint- 
ment of sundry claimants who had thought them- 
selves sure of the rich prize, there seemed doubt 
and mystery to involve their several pretensions. 

1 A cant expression in Scotland for Death, usually delineated 
as a skeleton. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


343 


Crkvecoeur showed a hoar’s hide such as De la 
March usually wore; Dunois produced a cloven 
shield, with his armorial bearings ; and there were 
others, who claimed the merit of having dispatched 
the murderer of the Bishop, producing similar tokens 
— the rich reward fixed on De la Marck’s head hav- 
ing brought death to all who were armed in his 
resemblance. 

There was much noise and contest among the 
competitors, and Charles, internally regretting the 
rash promise which had placed the hand and wealth 
of his fair vassal on such a hazard, was in hopes 
he might find means of evading all these conflict- 
ing claims, when Crawford pressed forward into 
the circle, dragging Le Balafrd after him., who, awk- 
ward and bashful, followed like an unwilling mas- 
tiff towed on in a leash, as his leader exclaimed, — 
“ Away with your hoofs and hides, and painted 
iron ! — No one, save he who slew the Boar, can 
show the tusks ! ” 

So saying, he flung on the floor the bloody head, 
easily known as that of De la Marck, by the singu- 
lar conformation of the jaws, which in reality had 
a certain resemblance to those of the animal whose 
name he bore, and which was instantly recognised 
by all who had seen him . 1 

1 We have already noticed the anachronism respecting the 
crimes of this atrocious baron ; and it is scarce necessary to re- 
peat, that if he in reality murdered the Bishop of Liege in 1482, 
the Count of La Marck could not be slain in the defence of Liege 
four years earlier. In fact, the Wild Boar of Ardennes, as he was 
usually termed, was of high birth, being the third son of John I., 
Count of La Marck and Aremberg, and ancestor of the branch 
called Barons of Lumain. He did not escape the punishment due 
to his atrocity, though it did not' take place at the time, or in the 
manner, narrated in the text. Maximilian, Emperor of Austria, 


344 


QUENTIN DU R WARD. 


“Crawford,” said Louis, while Charles sat silent 
in gloomy and displeased surprise, “ I trust it is one 
of my faithful Scots who has won this prize ? ” 

“It is Ludovic Lesly, Sire, whom we call Le 
Balafr^,” replied the old soldier. 

“ But is he noble ? ” said the Duke ; “ is he of 
gentle blood ? — otherwise our promise is void.” 

“ He is a cross ungainly piece of wood enough,” 
said Crawford, looking at the tall, awkward, em- 
barrassed figure of the Archer ; “ but I will war- 
rant him a branch of the tree of Rothes for all 
that — and they have been as noble as any house in 
France or Burgundy, ever since it is told of their 
founder, that 

‘ Between the less-lee 1 and the mair, 

He slew the Knight, and left him there.* ’* 

“ There is then no help for it,” said the Duke, 
“and the fairest and richest heiress in Burgundy 
must be the wife of a rude mercenary soldier like 
this, or die secluded in a convent — and she the only 
child of our faithful Reginald de Croye ! — I have 
been too rash.” 

And a cloud settled on his brow, to the surprise 
of his peers, who seldom saw him evince the slight- 
est token of regret for the necessary consequences 
of an adopted resolution. 

“ Hold, but an instant,” said the Lord Craw- 
ford, “ it may be better than your Grace conjec- 

caused him to he arrested at Utrecht, where he was beheaded 
in the year 1485, three years after the Bishop of Liege’s death. 

1 An old rhyme, by which the Leslies vindicate their descent 
from an ancient knight, who is said to have slain a gigantic 
Hungarian champion, and to have formed a proper name for him- 
self by a play of words upon the place where he fought his 
adversary. 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


345 


tures. Hear but what this cavalier has to say. — 
Speak out, man, and a murrain to thee,” he added, 
apart to Le Balafr£. 

But that blunt soldier, though he could make 
a shift to express himself intelligibly enough to 
King Louis, to whose familiarity he was habitu- 
ated, yet found himself incapable of enunciating his 
resolution before so splendid an assembly as that in 
presence of which he then stood ; and after having 
turned his shoulder to the princes, and preluded 
with a hoarse chuckling laugh, and two or three 
tremendous contortions of countenance, he was only 
able to pronounce the words, “ Saunders Souple- 
jaw ” — and then stuck fast. 

“ May it please your Majesty, and your Grace,” 
said Crawford, “ I must speak for my countryman 
and old comrade. You shall understand, that he 
has had it prophesied to him by a Seer in his own 
land, that the fortune of his house is to be made 
by marriage; but as he is, like myself, something 
the worse for the wear, — loves the wine-house 
better than a lady’s summer-parlour, and, in short, 
having some barrack tastes and likings, which would 
make greatness in his own person rather an encum- 
brance to him, he hath acted by my advice, and 
resigns the pretensions acquired by the fate of slay- 
ing William de la Marck, to him by whom the Wild 
Boar was actually brought to bay, who is his mater- 
nal nephew.” 

“ I will vouch for that youth’s services and pru- 
dence,” said King Louis, overjoyed to see that fate 
had thrown so gallant a prize to one over whom he 
had some influence. “ Without his prudence and 
vigilance, we had been ruined — It was he who 
made us aware of the night-sally.” 


346 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


“I then,” said Charles, “owe him some repara- 
tion for doubting his veracity.” 

“And I can attest his gallantry as a man-at- 
arms,” said Dunois. 

“ But,” interrupted Crevecoeur, “ though the uncle 
be a Scottish gentilldtre , that makes not the nephew 
necessarily so.” 

“ He is of the House of Durward,” said Craw- 
ford ; “ descended from that Allan Durward, who 
was High Steward of Scotland.” 

“ Hay, if it he young Durward,” said Crevecoeur, 
“ I say no more. Fortune has declared herself on 
his side too plainly, for me to struggle farther with 
her humoursome ladyship ; — but it is strange, from 
lord to horseboy, how wonderfully these Scots stick 
by each other.” 

“ Highlanders, shoulder to shoulder ! ” answered 
Lord Crawford, laughing at the mortification of the 
proud Burgundian. 

“We have yet to enquire,” said Charles, thought- 
fully, “ what the fair lady’s sentiments may be 
towards this fortunate adventurer.” 

“ By the mass ! ” said Crevecoeur, “ I have but 
too much reason to believe your Grace will find 
her more amenable to authority than on former 
occasions. — But why should I grudge this youth 
his preferment? since, after all, it is sense, firm- 
ness, and gallantry, which have put him in pos- 
session of Wealth, Rank, and Beauty ! ” 

I had already sent these sheets to the press, 
concluding, as I thought, with a moral of excellent 
tendency for the encouragement of all fair-haired, 
blue-eyed, long-legged, stout-hearted emigrants from 
my native country, who might be willing in stirring 


QUENTIN DURWARD. 


347 


times to take up the gallant profession of Cava- 
lieros of Fortune. But a friendly monitor, one 
of those who like the lump of sugar which is 
found at the bottom of a tea-cup, as well as the 
flavour of the souchong itself, has entered a bitter 
remonstrance, and insists that I should give a pre- 
cise and particular account of the espousals of the 
young heir of Glen-houlakin and the lovely Flemish 
Countess, and tell what tournaments were held, and 
how many lances were broken, upon so interesting 
an occasion ; nor withhold from the curious reader 
the number of sturdy boys, who inherited the valour 
of Quentin Durward, and of bright damsels, in 
whom were renewed the charms of Isabelle de 
Croye. I replied in course of post, that times were 
changed, and public weddings were entirely out of 
fashion. In days, traces of which I myself can re- 
member, not only were the “ fifteen friends” of the 
happy pair invited to witness their union, but the 
bridal minstrelsy still continued, as in the “ Ancient 
Mariner,” to “ nod their heads ” till morning shone 
on them. The sack -posset was eaten in the nuptial 
chamber — the stocking was thrown — and the 
bride’s garter was struggled for in presence of the 
happy couple whom Hymen had made one flesh. 
The authors of the period were laudably accurate 
in following its fashions. They spared you not a 
blush of the bride, not a rapturous glance of the 
bridegroom, not a diamond in her hair, not a button 
on his embroidered waistcoat ; until at length, with 
Astrsea, ( e ) “ they fairly put their characters to bed.” 
But how little does this agree with the modest 
privacy which induces our modern brides — sweet 
bashful darlings ! — to steal from pomp and plate, 


343 QUENTIN DURWARD. 

and admiration and flattery, and, like honest 
Shenstone, 

“ Seek for freedom at an inn I ** 

To these, unquestionably, an exposure of the 
circumstances of publicity with which a bridal in 
the fifteenth century was always celebrated, must 
appear in the highest degree disgusting. Isabelle 
de Croye would be ranked in their estimation far 
below the maid who milks, and does the meanest 
chares ; for even she, were it in the church-porch, 
would reject the hand of her journeyman shoe- 
maker, should he propose “ fair e des noces” as it is 
called on Parisian signs, instead of going down on 
the top of the long coach to spend the honeymoon 
incognito at Deptford or Greenwich. I will not, 
therefore, tell more of this matter, but will steal 
away from the wedding as Ariosto from that of 
Angelica, leaving it to whom it may please to ad,d 
farther particulars, after the fashion of their own 
imagination. 


“ Some better bard shall sing, in feudal state 
How Braquemont’s Castle op’d its Gothic gate, 
When on the wand’ring Scot, its lovely heir 
Bestow’d her beauty and an earldom fair.’* 1 

1 “ E come a ritornare in sua contrada 
Trovasse e buon naviglio e miglior tempo 
E dell’ India a Medor desse lc scettro 
Forse altri cantera con miglior plettro.” 

Orlando Furioso, Canto XXX. Stanza 16 . 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


Note 1., p. 79. — Murder of the Bishop of Liege. 

In assigning the present date to the murder of the Bishop 
of Liege, Louis de Bourbon, history has been violated. It is 
true that the Bishop was made prisoner by the insurgents of 
that city. It is also true that the report of the insurrection 
came to Charles with a rumour that the Bishop was slain, 
which excited his indignation against Louis, who was then 
in his power. But these things happened in 1468, and the 
Bishop’s murder did not take place till 1482. In the months 
of August and September of that year, William de la Marck, 
called the Wild Boar of Ardennes, entered into a conspiracy 
with the discontented citizens of Liege against their Bishop, 
Louis of Bourbon, being aided with considerable sums of money 
by the King of France. By this means, and the assistance of 
many murderers and banditti, who thronged to him as to a 
leader befitting them, De la Marck assembled a body of troops, 
whom he dressed in scarlet as a uniform, with a boar’s head on 
the left sleeve. With this little army he approached the city 
of Liege. Upon this the citizens, who were engaged in the 
conspiracy, came to their Bishop, and, offering to stand by him 
to the death, exhorted him to march out against these robbers. 
The Bishop, therefore, put himself at the head of a few troops 
of his own, trusting to the assistance of the people of Liege. 
But so soon as they came in sight of the enemy, the citizens, 
as before agreed, fled from the Bishop’s banner, and he was left 
with his own handful of adherents. At this moment De la 
Marck charged at the head of his banditti with the expected 
success. The Bishop was brought before the profligate Knight, 
who first cut him over the face, then murdered him with his 
own hand, and caused his body to be exposed naked in the 
great square of Liege before Saint Lambert’s cathedral. 

Such is the actual narrative of a tragedy which struck with 
horror the people of the time. The murder of the Bishop has 


350 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


been fifteen years antedated in the text, for reasons which the 
reader of romances will easily appreciate. ( f ) 


Note II., p. 106. — Schwarz -reiters. 

Fynes Morrison describes this species of soldiery as follows : 

“ He that at this day looks upon their Schwarz-reiters, (that is, 
black horsemen, ) must confess, that, to make their horses and boots 
shine, they make themselves as black as colliers. These horsemen 
wear black clothes, and poor though they be, spend no small time 
in brushing them. The most of them have black horses, which, 
while they painfully dress, and (as I have said) delight to have tlieii 
boots and shoes shine with blacking-stuff, their hands and faces 
become black, and thereof they have their foresaid name. Yet I 
have heard Germans say, that they do thus make themselves black 
to seem more terrible to their enemies.” — Fynes Morrison’s 
Itinerary. Edition 1617, p. 165. 

Note III., p. 131. — Philip des Comines. 

Philip des Comines was described in the former editions of * 
this work as a little man, fitted rather for counsel than action. 
This was a description made at a venture, to vary the military 
portraits with which the age and work abound. Sleidan the 
historian, upon the authority of Matthieu d’Arves, who knew 
Philip des Coniines, and had served in his household, says he 
was a man of tall stature, and a noble presence. The learned 
Monsieur Petitot, editor of the edition of Memoirs relative to 
the History of France, a work of great value, intimates that 
Philip des Comines made a figure at the games of chivalry and 
pageants exhibited on the wedding of Charles of Burgundy 
with Margaret of England in 1468. — See the Chronicle of 
Jean de Troyes, in Petitot’s edition of the Memoirs Relatifs d 
VHistoire de France , vol. xiii. p. 375. Note. I have looked 
into Oliver de la Marck, who, in lib. ii., chapter iv., of his 
Memoirs, gives an ample account of these “fierce vanities,” 
containing as many miscellaneous articles as the reticule of the 
old merchant of Peter Schleml, who bought shadows, and car- 
ried with him in his bag whatever any one could wish or 
demand in return. There are in that splendid description, 
knights, dames, pages, and archers, good store besides of castles, 
fiery dragons, and dromedaries ; there are leopards riding upon 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


35* 


lions ; there are rocks, orchards, fountains, spears broken and 
whole, and the twelve labours of Hercules. In such a brilliant 
medley I had some trouble in finding Philip des Comines. He 
is the first named, however, of a gallant band of assailants, 
knights and noblemen, to the number of twenty, who, with 
the Prince of Orange as their leader, encountered, in a general 
tourney, with a party of the same number under the profligate 
Adolf of Cleves, who acted as challenger, by the romantic title 
of Arbre d’or. The encounter, though with arms of courtesy, 
was very fierce, and separated by main force, not without dif- 
ficulty. Philip des Comines has, therefore, a title to be 
accounted tam Marte quam Mercurio , though, when we con- 
sider the obscurity which has settled on the rest of this troupe 
doree , we are at no loss to estimate the most valuable of his 
qualifications. 


Note IV., p. 133. — Meeting of Louis and Charles after 
the Battle of Montl'hery. 

After the battle of Montl’hery, in 1465, Charles, then Compte de 
Charalois, had an interview with Louis under the walls of Paris, 
each at the head of a small party. The two princes dismounted, 
and walked together so deeply engaged in discussing the business of 
their meeting, that Charles forgot the peculiarity of his situation ; 
and when Louis turned back towards the town of Paris, from which 
he came, the Count of Charalois kept him company so far as to pass 
the line of outworks with which Paris was surrounded, and enter a 
field-work which communicated with the town by a trench. At this 
period he had only five or six persons in company with him. His 
escort caught an alarm for his safety, and his principal followers rode 
forward from where he had left them, remembering that his grand- 
father had been assassinated at Montereau in a similar parley, on 
10th September, 1419. To their great joy the Count returned 
uninjured, accompanied with a guard belonging to Louis. The 
Burgundians taxed him with rashness in no measured terms. “Say 
no more of it,” said Charles ; “ I acknowledge the extent of my 
folly, but 1 was not aware what I was doing till I entered the 
redoubt.” — Memoires de Philippe des Comines, chap. xiii. 

Louis was much praised for his good faith on this occasion ; 
and it was natural that the Duke should call it to recollection 
when his enemy so unexpectedly put himself in his power by 
his visit to Peronne. 


352 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


Note V., p. 183. 

The historical facts attending this celebrated interview, are 
expounded and enlarged upon in Chapter X. Agents sent 
by Louis had tempted the people of Liege to rebel against 
their superior, Duke Charles, and persecute and murder their 
Bishop. But Louis was not prepared for their acting with such 
promptitude. They flew to arms with the temerity of a fickle 
rabble, took the Bishop prisoner, menaced and insulted him, 
and tore to pieces- one or two of his canons. This news was 
sent to the Duke of Burgundy at the moment when Louis had 
so unguardedly placed himself in his power ; and the con- 
sequence was, that Charles placed guards on the Castle of 
Peronne, and, deeply resenting the treachery of the King of 
France in exciting sedition in his dominions, while he pre- 
tended the most intimate friendship, he deliberated whether 
he should not put Louis to death. 

Three days Louis was detained in this very precarious situ- 
ation ; and it was only his profuse liberality amongst Charles’s 
favourites and courtiers which finally ensured him from death 
or deposition. Comines, who was the Duke of Burgundy’s 
chamberlain at the time, and slept in his apartment, says, 
Charles neither undressed nor slept, but flung himself from 
time to time on the bed, and, at other times, wildly traversed 
the apartment. It was long before his violent temper became 
in any degree tractable. At length he only agreed to give 
Louis his liberty, on condition of his accompanying him in 
person against, and employing his troops in subduing, the 
mutineers whom his intrigues had instigated to arms. 

This was a bitter and degrading alternative. But Louis, 
seeing no other mode of compounding for the effects of his 
rashness, not only submitted to this discreditable condition, 
but swore to it upon a crucifix said to have belonged to Charle- 
magne. These particulars are from Comines. There is a 
succinct epitome of them in Sir Nathaniel Wraxall’s History 
of France, vol. i. 


Note VI., p. 195. — Prayer of Louis XI. 

While I perused these passages in the old manuscript chro. 
nicle, I could not help feeling astonished that an intellect acute 
as that of Louis XI. certainly was. could so delude itself by 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


353 


a sort of superstition, of which one would think the stupidest 
savages incapable ; but the terms of the King’s prayer, on a 
similar occasion, as preserved by Brantome, are of a tenor full}' 
as extraordinary. It is that which, being overheard by a fool 
or jester, was by him made public, and let in light on an act 
of fratricide, which might never have been suspected. The 
way in which the story is narrated by the corrupted courtier, 
who could jest with all that is criminal as well as with all that 
is profligate, is worthy the reader’s notice ; for such actions 
are seldom done where there are not men with hearts of the 
nether millstone, capable and willing to make them matters of 
laughter. 

“Among the numerous good tricks of dissimulation, feints, and 
finesses of gallantry, which the good King (Louis XI.) did in his 
time, he put to death his brother, the Duke de Guyenne, at the 
moment when the Duke least thought of such a thing, and while the 
King was making the greatest show of love to him during his life, 
and of affection for him at his death, managing the whole concern 
with so much art, that it would never have been known had not 
the King taken into his own service a fool who had belonged to his 
deceased brother. But it chanced that Louis, being engaged in his 
devout prayers and orisons at the high altar of our Lady of Clery, 
whom he called his good patroness, and no person nigh except this 
fool, who, without his knowledge, was within earshot, he thus gave 
vent to his pious homilies : — 

“ ‘Ah, my good Lady, my gentle mistress, my only friend, in 
whom alone I have resource, I pray you to supplicate God in my 
behalf, and to be my advocate with him that he may pardon me 
the death of my brother whom I caused to be poisoned by that 
wicked Abbot of Saint John. I confess my guilt to thee as to my 
good patroness and mistress. But then what could I do ? he was 
perpetually causing disorder in my kingdom. Cause me then to be 
pardoned, my good Lady, and I know what a reward I will give 
thee.’ ” 

This singular confession did not escape the jester, who 
upbraided the King with the fratricide in the face of the whole 
company at dinner, which Louis was fain to let pass without 
observation, in case of increasing the slander. 


Note VII., p. 213. — Martius Galeotti. 

The death of Martins Galeotti was in some degree connected 
with Louis XI. The astrologer was at Lyons, and hearing that 


354 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


the King was approaching the city, got on horseback in ordei 
to meet him. As he threw himself hastily from his horse to 
pay his respects to the King, he fell with a violence which, 
joined to his extreme corpulence, was the cause of his death in 
1478. 

But the acute and ready-witted expedient to escape instant 
death, had no reference to the history of this philosopher. 
The same, or nearly the same story, is told of Tiberius, who 
demanded of a soothsayer, Thrasullus, if he knew the day of his 
own death, and received for answer, it would take place just 
three days before that of the Emperor. On this reply, instead 
of being thrown over the rocks into the sea, as had been the 
tyrant’s first intention, he was taken great care of for the rest 
of his life. — — Taciti Annal. lib. vi. cap. 22. 

The circumstances in which Louis XI. received a similar 
reply from an astrologer are as follow : — The soothsayer in 
question had presaged that a female favourite, to whom the 
King was very much attached, should die in a week. As he 
proved a true prophet, the King was as much incensed as if 
the astrologer could have prevented the evil he predicted. He 
sent for the philosopher, and had a party stationed to assassi- 
nate him as he retired from the royal presence. Being asked 
by the King concerning his own fortunes, he confessed that he 
perceived signs of some imminent danger. Being farther ques- 
tioned concerning the day of his own death, he was shrewd 
enough to answer with composure, that it would be exactly 
three days before that of his Majesty. There was, of course, 
care taken that he should escape his destined fate ; and he was 
ever after much protected by the King, as a man of real science, 
and intimately connected with the royal destinies. 

Although almost all the historians of Louis represent him 
as a dupe to the common but splendid imposture of judicial 
astrology, yet his credulity could not be deep-rooted, if the 
following anecdote, reported by Bayle, be correct. 

Upon one occasion, Louis intending to hunt, and doubtful of 
the weather, enquired of an astrologer near his person whether 
it would be fair. The sage, having recourse to his astrolabe, 
answered with confidence in the affirmative. At the entrance 
of the forest the royal cortege was met by a charcoalman, who 
expressed to some menials oi the train his surprise that the 
King should have thought of hunting in a day which threat- 
ened tempest. The collier’s prediction proved true. The King 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


355 


and his court were driven from their sport well drenched ; and 
Louis, having heard what the collier had said, ordered the man 
before him. “ How were you more accurate in foretelling the 
weather, my friend,” said he, “ than this learned man ? ” — 
“ 1 am an ignorant man, Sire,” answered the collier, “ was 
never at school, and cannot read or write. But I have an 
astrologer of my own, who shall foretell weather with any of 
them. It is, with reverence, the ass who carries my charcoal, 
who always, when bad weather is approaching, points forward 
his ears, walks more slowly than usual, and tries to rub him- 
self against walls ; and it was from these signs that I foretold 
yesterday’s storm.” The King burst into a fit of laughing, 
dismissed the astrological biped, and assigned the collier a 
small pension to maintain the quadruped, swearing he would 
never in future trust to any other astrologer than the charcoal- 
man’s ass. 

But if there is any truth in this story, the credulity of Louis 
was not of a nature to be removed by the failure there men- 
tioned. He is said to have believed in the prediction of Angelo 
Cattho, his physician, and the friend of Comines, who foretold 
the death of Charles of Burgundy in the very time and hour 
when it took place at the battle of Morat. Upon this assu- 
rance, Louis vowed a silver screen to the shrine of Saint Martin, 
which he afterwards fulfilled at the expense of one hundred 
thousand francs. It is well known, besides, that he was the 
abject and devoted slave of his physicians. Coctier, or Cottier, 
one of their number, besides the retaining fee of ten thousand 
crowns, extorted from his royal patient great sums in lands 
and money, and, in addition to all, the Bishopric of Amiens 
for his nephew. He maintained over Louis unbounded in- 
fluence, by using to him the most disrespectful harshness and 
insolence. “ I know,” he said to the suffering King, “ that 
one morning you will turn me adrift like so many others. 
But, by Heaven, you had better beware, for you will not live 
eight days after you have done so ! ” It is unnecessary to dwell 
longer on the fears and superstitions of a prince, whom the 
wretched love of life induced to submit to such indignities. 


Note VIII., p. 245. 

There is little doubt that, during the interesting scene at 
Peronne, Philip des Comines first learned intimately to know 


356 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


the great powers of mind of Louis XI., by which he was so 
much dazzled that it is impossible, in reading his Memoirs, not 
to be sensible that he was blinded by them to the more odious 
shades of his character. He entertained from this time forward 
a partiality to France. The historian passed into France about 
1472, and rose high in the good graces of Louis XI. He after- 
wards became the proprietor of the Lordship of Argenton and 
others, a title which was given him by anticipation in the 
former editions of this work. He did not obtain it till he was 
in the French service. After the death of Louis, Philip des 
Comities fell under the suspicion of the daughter of Louis, called 
our Lady of Beaujeu, as too zealous a partisan of the rival 
House of Orleans. The historian himself was imprisoned for 
eight months in one of the iron cages which he has so forcibly 
described. It was there that he regretted the fate of a court 
life. “ I have ventured on the great ocean,” he said, in his 
affliction, “ and the waves have devoured me.” He was sub- 
jected to a trial, and exiled from court for some years by the 
Parliament of Paris, being found guilty of holding intercourse 
with disaffected persons. He survived this cloud, however, 
and was afterwards employed by Charles VIII. in one or two 
important missions, where talents were required. Louis XII. 
also transferred his favour to the historian, but did not employ 
him. He died at his Castle of Argenton, in 1509, and was 
regretted as one of the most profound statesmen, and certainly 
the best historian of his age. In a poem to his memory by the 
poet Ron sard, he received the distinguished praise that he was 
the first to show the lustre which valour and noble blood derived 
from being united with learning. 

Note IX., p. 285. — Disguised Herald. 

The heralds of the middle ages, like the feciales of the 
Romans, were invested with a character which was held almost 
sacred. To strike a herald was a crime which inferred a cap- 
ital punishment ; and to counterfeit the character of such an 
august official was a degree of treason towards those men who 
were accounted the depositaries of the secrets of monarchs and 
the honour of nobles. Yet a prince so unscrupulous as Louis 
XI. did not hesitate to practise such an imposition, when he 
wished to enter into communication with Edward IV. of 
England. 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


357 


Exercising that knowledge of mankind for which he was so 
eminent, he selected, as an agent fit for his purpose, a simple 
valet. This man, whose address had been known to him, he 
disguised as a herald, with all the insignia of his office, and 
sent him in that capacity to open a communication with the 
English army. Two things are remarkable in this transaction. 
First, that the stratagem, though of so fraudulent a nature, does 
not seem to have been necessarily called for, since all that King 
Louis could gain by it would be, that he did not commit 
himself by sending a more responsible messenger. The other 
circumstance worthy of notice, is, that Comines, though he 
mentions the affair at great length, is so pleased with the 
King’s shrewdness in selecting, and dexterity at indoctrinating, 
his pseudo-herald, that he forgets all remark on the impudence 
and fraud of the imposition, as well as the great risk of discov- 
ery. From both which circumstances, we are led to the 
conclusion, that the solemn character which the heralds 
endeavoured to arrogate to themselves, had already begun to 
lose regard among statesmen and men of the great world. 

Even Feme, zealous enough for the dignity of the herald, 
seems to impute this intrusion on their rights in some degree 
to necessity. “ I have heard some,” he says, “ but with shame 
enough, allow of the action of Louis XI. of the kingdom of 
France, who had so unknightly a regard both of his own hon- 
our, and also of armes, that he seldom had about his court 
any officer-at-armes. And therefore, at such time as Edward 
IV., King of England, had entered France with a hostile 
power, and lay before the town of Saint Quentin, the same 
French King, f6r want of a herald to carry his mind to the 
English King, was constrained to suborn a vadelict, or com- 
mon serving-man, with a trumpet-banner, having a hole made 
through the middest for this preposterous herauld to put his 
head through, and to cast it over his shoulders instead of a 
better coat-armour of France. And thus came this hast- 
ily-arrayed courier as a counterfeit officer-at-armes, with 
instructions from his sovereign’s mouth to offer peace to our 
King. ‘ Well,’ replies Torquatus, the other interlocutor in the 
dialogue, 4 that fault was never yet to be seen in any of our 
English Kings, nor ever shall be, I hope.’ ” — Ferne’s Blazen 
of Gentry, 1586, p. 161. 

In this curious book, the author, besides some assertions in 
favour of coat-armour, too nearly approaching blasphemy to be 


358 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


quoted, informs us, that the Apostles were gentlemen of blood, 
and many of them descended from that worthy conqueror, 
Judas Maccabaeus ; but through the course of time and perse- 
cution of wars, poverty oppressed the kindred, and they were 
constrained to servile works. So were the four doctors and 
fathers of the church (Ambrose, Augustine, Hierome, and 
Gregorie) gentlemen both of blood and arms, p. 98. The 
author’s copy of this rare tract (memorial of a hopeful young 
friend, now no more) exhibits a curious sally of the national 
and professional irritability of a Scottish herald. 

This person appears to have been named Thomas Drysdale, 
Islay Herald, who purchased the volume in 1619, and seems to 
have perused it with patience and profit till he came to the 
following passage in Feme, which enters into the distinction 
between sovereign and feudatory crowns. “ There is also a 
King, and he a homager, or fcedatorie to the estate and inajestie 
of another King, as to his superior lord, as that of Scotland to 
our English empire.” This assertion set on fire the Scottish 
blood of Islay Herald, who, forgetting the book had been 
printed nearly forty years before, and that the author was prob- 
ably dead, writes on the margin in great wrath, and in a half 
text hand, “ He is a traitor and lyar in his throat , and I offer 
him the combat, that says Scotland's Kings were ever feudatorie to 
England .” 


Note X., p. 326. — Attack upon Liege. 

The Duke of Burgundy, full of resentment for the usage 
which the Bishop had received from the people of Liege, 
(whose death, as already noticed, did not take place for some 
years after,) and knowing that the walls of the town had not 
been repaired since they were breached by himself after the 
battle of Saint Tron, advanced recklessly to their chastisement. 
His commanders shared his presumptuous confidence ; for the 
advanced guard of his army, under the Marechal of Burgundy 
and Seigneur D’Hymbercourt, rushed upon one of the suburbs, 
without waiting for the rest of their army, which, commanded 
by the Duke in person, remained about seven or eight leagues 
in the rear. The night was closing, and, as the Burgundian 
troops observed no discipline, they were exposed to a sudden 
attack from a party of the citizens commanded by Jean de Yilde, 
who, assaulting them in front and rear, threw them into great 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


359 

disorder, and killed more than eight hundred men, of whom 
one hundred were men-at-arms. 

When Charles and the King of France came up, they took 
up their quarters in two villas situated near to the wall of the 
city. In the two or three days which followed, Louis was dis- 
tinguished for the quiet and regulated composure with which 
he pressed the siege, and provided for defence in case of sallies ; 
while the Duke of Burgundy, no way deficient in courage, and 
who showed the rashness and want of order which was his 
principal characteristic, seemed also extremely suspicious that 
the King would desert him and join with the Liegeois. 

They lay before the town for five or six days, and at length 
fixed the 30th of October, 1468, for a general storm. The cit- 
izens, who had probably information of their intent, resolved 
to prevent their purpose, and determined on anticipating it by 
a desperate sally through the breaches in their walls. They 
placed at their head six hundred of the men of the little terri- 
tory of Franchemont, belonging to the Bishopric of Liege, and 
reckoned the most valiant of their troops. They burst out 
of the town on a sudden, surprised the Duke of Burgundy’s 
quarters ere his guards could put on their armour, which they 
had laid off to enjoy some repose before the assault. The 
King of France’s lodgings were also attacked and endangered. 
A great confusion ensued, augmented incalculably by the 
mutual jealousy and suspicions of the French and Burgundians. 
The people of Liege were, however, unable to maintain their 
hardy enterprise, when the men-at-arms of the King and Duke 
began to recover from their confusion, and were finally forced 
to retire within their walls, after narrowly missing the chance 
of surprising both King Louis and the Duke of Burgundy, the 
most powerful Princes of their time. At daybreak the storm 
took place, as had been originally intended, and the citizens, 
disheartened and fatigued by the nocturnal sally, did not make 
so much resistance as was expected. Liege was taken, and 
miserably pillaged, without regard to sex or age, things sacred 
or things profane. These particulars are fully related by Com- 
ines in his Memoirs, liv. ii. chap. 11, 12, 13, and do not differ 
much from the account of the same events in Chapters XVIII. 
and XIX. 





EDITOR’S NOTES. 


(a) p. 98. “A poet of ray own land.” The celebrated 
lines quoted are from Barbour’s “ Bruce.” 

(b) p. 147. “ I wished for the constable’s head” This is an 

historical jest reported by Coinmines. “ Le Roy dit qu’il avoit 
bien besongne d’une telle teste, corarae la sienne. . . . Je n’enten 
point que nous eussions le corps, inais j’enten que nous eussions 
la teste, et que le corps furt demoure la.” (Coramines, iv. ii.) 

(c) p. 194. “ Sweet Lady of Clery.” Brantome, no very 

good authority, tells the famous tale of Louis’s prayer, overheard 
by the Jester si fol,fat, sot , that Louis never suspected him of 
listening. “ More than fifty years ago,” says Brantome, “ when 
I was a boy at College in Paris, I heard this story from an old, 
canon there, who was nearly eighty ; the tale had descended 
from canon to canon.” Brantome quotes the “Annales de 
Bouchet” for the evil end of the Abbe de St. Jean, whom 
Louis employed as a poisoner. 

(d) p. 285. “ Disguised herald.” This incident is reported 

by Commines, iv. 7. The varlet prayed on his knees that he 
might not be sent in the disguise. A dress of a sort was bor- 
rowed from “ a little herald,” called Plein-chemin, “ the trumpet 
banner ” was also used, as described by Feme. The envoy 
was perfectly successful. 

(e) p. 347. “ Astraea.” The reference is to the plays of 

Mrs. Aphra Behn — “The stage how loosely doth Astraea 
tread, Who fairly puts each character to bed.” 

(/) p. 350. Revolt of Liege. See Commines, ii. 5, on the 
King’s stirring up the Liegeois, the year after Charles had 
destroyed their walls, and at the very time when Louis was 
about to meet Charles at Peronne. The Liegeois, meanwhile, 
took Tongres, and captured the Bishop ; they killed five or six 
Canons, in the Bishop’s presence, and tossed about the mangled 
limbs. (Commines, ii. 7.) When Charles heard of this, he, 
not unnaturally, fell into a passion, closed the gates of Peronne, 


362 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


pretending that he did so for the purpose of apprehending a 
thief who had stolen some jewels, and lodged the King in 
the tower where a Count of Vermandois had slain Charles the 
Simple. Commines, who slept in Charles’s chamber, believes 
that had indiscreet counsellors been with the Duke he would 
have slain Louis. After days of passion, described in the 
novel, peace was sworn on a portion of the “ True Cross of 
Saint Charlemagne,” and Louis promised to march with Charles 
against Liege. Except for the incident of Quentin Durward 
and the Countess of Croye, all this part of the tale follows 
history closely, allowing for the anticipation of the Bishop’s 
murder. 

Andrew Lang. 

November 1893. 


GLOSSARY. 


Assoil, to acquit, to pardon. 

“ Bar^and Arriere-Ban,” the 
entire feudal force. 

Bavaroise, tea sweetened with 
capillaire. 

Blate, bashful, stupid. 

Bottrine, a small leather flask. 

Brach, a hound. 

Braw, brave. 

Braw-warld, showy, gaudy. 

Gallant, a boy, a stripling. 

Cast, an example, a specimen. 

Chare, household work. 

Chield, a fellow. 

Cocagne, an imaginary coun- 
try. 

“ Colin Maillard, ” blind-man’s- 
buff. 

Combust, an astrological term 
for a planet that is too near 
the sun. 

Culverin, an ancient small can- 
non. 

Curney, a small number. 


Faitour, a traitor, a rascal. 

Frampold, unruly, peevish. 

Gear, affair. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Guilder, a gold coin. 

Halidome, honour. 

Hanap, an old word for cup. 

Handsel, a gift. 

Hawk-purse, a bag worn by a 
falconer. 

“ Henri Quatre coat,” a tight- 
fitting garment terminating 
just below the waist. 

“ Hermetical philosophy,” a sys- 
tem ascribed to Hermes Tris- 
megistus, i.e., the god Thoth, 
the traditional author of Egyp- 
tian culture. 

“ Hors de page, to be,” to have 
finished serving one’s appren- 
ticeship as a page. 

Ilk, each. 


Daffing, loose talk. 

Darioles, pastry cakes containing 
cream. 

Demi-solde, half-pay. 

Doddered, covered with twining 
parasites. 

Duffle, a coarse woollen cloth. 
Dyes, toys, gewgaws. 


Ken, to know. 

“Knight without fear and re- 
proach ” — the Chevalier Bay 
ard. 

Lire, a pint. 

List, to please. 

Loom, an article 
Lurdane, a blockhead. 


Ephemerides, an astronomical 
almanac. 

Ethnic, pagan. 


Malapert, impertinent. 

Meikle, much. 

Mell, to meddle, to join in battle. 


3 r 4 


GLOSSARY. 


Minting, aiming. 

Mumble, to chew gently. 

Partisan, a pike. 

Pasques-Dieu, the favourite oath 
of Louis XI. 

Poll, shave, pillage. 

Poortith, poverty. 

Pow, the head. 

Quack-salving, pertaining to 
quackery. 

Rake-helly, dissolute. 

Pocket, a loose frock. 

Rouse, a draught. 

Runagate, a fugitive, an outlaw. 


Saker, a piece of light artil- 
lery. 

“ Saus and braus,” revelry. 

Shod, a shovel. 

Souter, a cobbler. 

“ Stave and tail ” — in bear-bait- 
ing, “ Stop the sport ! " 

Thrall, a serf. 

Trunk-hose, large breeches 
reaching to the knee. 

Wassail, ale or wine spiced ; also, 
a festival. 

Whilly-whaw, to talk in a kindly 
and cajoling way. 

Wight, strong. 


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